Taken
by 427-67Impala
Summary: The fact that Sam started the Apocalypse isn't as secret as he thinks. He's on his own, away from Dean, and there are some hunters that aren't keen to forgive. They have Sam, and they want payback - but they don't know Dean is coming for his baby brother.
1. Chapter 1

_Title:_ Taken  
><em>Author:<em> 427-67Impala  
><em>Rating:<em> M  
><em>Warnings:<em> Violence, torture, Limp!Sam, Limp!Dean, Evil!Dean  
><em>Word count:<em> 67 745 (so far)  
><em>Setting:<em> Early Season 5 (after _Good God Y'All!_)

_Summary:_ The fact that Sam jump-started the Apocalypse isn't as much of a secret as he thinks it is. He's on his own, away from Dean, and there are hunters out there that aren't keen to forgive and forget. They have Sam, and they want some payback - but they don't know Dean is coming for his baby brother.

_A/N:_ This one has roots in _Good God Y'All!_/_Free To Be You And Me_ (and probably a little _Dark Side of the Moon_, if I'm honest). They started the wheels turning, then a plot bunny attacked, out of nowhere, at 2am one morning...! I think I need to find some plot bunny traps: those furry little tormentors turn up at the most inconvenient times :p  
>(Finally, don't worry about Kate: she's <em>not<em> Sam's Lisa!)

As we know, Sam and Dean belong to Kripke & co. - I'm just borrowing their toys... If you recognise it, I don't own it!

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 1<span>  
><em>Blue Springs, Missouri<em>

Sam looked up from slicing limes, his attention drawn to the developing altercation on the other side of the bar. It was barely even dark yet and the natives were already getting restless: he just _knew_ it was going to be a long night.

He sighed and went back to hacking up citrus, while a couple of bouncers broke up the fight before it could escalate beyond a shoving match. A tray landed suddenly on the bar in front of him, and he looked up to see Kate smiling at him from across the counter.

"Well, Tommy, don't you just look thrilled to be here on a Saturday evening!" The bubbly young waitress observed cheerfully, her silvery voice tinged with a hint of Southern drawl. She transferred the empty glassware off her tray to a space on the bench next to Sam, watching him as she did so.

"That obvious, huh?" Sam tried to smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He'd been in Blue Springs for months now, and was used to people using his alias, but every time he heard it he was reminded why he couldn't use his real name.

Kate raised her eyebrows at Sam and leaned over the bar. "Okay, Tommy, here's what I'm thinking..." she began, a cheeky smile spreading slowly across her face, "You and I are both off tomorrow night. We're going to go out for dinner." Kate gleefully informed him, and he immediately opened his mouth to protest.

She held up her hand, shushing Sam before he could get a word out. "Don't you dare! We've been working here at Johnny Blue's together for months, and I hardly know you. We're going to go out for dinner tomorrow night, Thomas Shaw, and we're going to have an actual conversation," Kate told him, eyes sparkling, obviously determined not to take no for an answer.

Sam tried to put on a more genuine smile, seeing there was no way he was going to get out of this one. Kate was nothing if not persistent - and her accent was kind of cute, he had to admit. Much like the rest of her...

"Okay, Kate. You win. Where would you like to go?" Sam asked, and was rewarded with a dazzling smile from the young redhead as she picked up her tray. "The new Italian place down the road. I'll see you there at seven." Kate replied, still smiling, before she left Sam to his limes and went back out into the bar.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The following night, when Sam met Kate at Blue Springs' newest Italian restaurant, the evening actually went rather well. Better than he had envisioned, anyway - Kate was asking just as many questions as he'd expected, and he was keeping up the Tommy Shaw façade. He gave just enough detail in his answers to satisfy Kate's curiosity, and she seemed happy with that.

Over the restaurant's signature pasta, they talked about all kinds of things: music, movies, books, sport, food, and even history. Kate, as it turned out, was a very intelligent young woman and Sam was actually enjoying himself. He hadn't sat down and talked like this with anyone in months, and he was realising just how much he missed it.

Lately, Sam had occupied his mind with books and documentaries and crosswords, but the dialogue was pretty one-sided. It was nice to have a real conversation with an actual human being again; and he'd even found one that had read Hemingway and Milton!

By dessert, Sam was beginning to think he might actually get away with the whole charade - that is, until Kate put down her gelato and looked across the table at him, a serious expression clouding her face. _Oh boy_, he thought, _here it comes_.

"Tommy, you haven't said two words about your family the whole time I've known you," she began, delicately, and Sam cringed inwardly. Yeah, this was exactly what he'd been afraid of.

"I'd just like to know where you come from, you know?" she went on, obviously having worked out a while back that Sam had problems with his family. The look on Kate's face said she wasn't going to leave this alone, and Sam really enjoyed her company, so he took a deep breath and decided to bite the bullet.

"Well, both my parents are dead," he began slowly. Kate listened intently, leaning forward with her elbows on the table. "I do have a brother - Dean - but we haven't seen each other in a while." Sam chose his words carefully. Just enough information to satisfy her curiosity, but not so much that she thought of new questions.

"Can I ask what went wrong between y'all?" Kate asked, gently. Sam sighed, sitting back in his chair and playing with what was left of his tiramisu. She was asking, whether he wanted her to or not.

"Dean and I... we kind of ran the family business together. I screwed up, and we decided it was best that I took some time off." As the words were coming out of Sam's mouth, he was surprised at how much truth was in them. Technically, all of that was true... you know, in a way...

Sam stopped there, hoping that was enough to keep Kate happy. He could see the wheels turning as she thought it over, debating whether to push harder. Kate meant well, he knew; she could see 'Tommy' was keeping a lot of stuff bottled up inside and she wanted to help, but this conversation was only serving to make Sam revisit things he wanted desperately to forget.

"We both said some painful things the day I left. I haven't spoken to him since." Sam sighed, eyes focused on his food. He _really_ wanted to change the subject now - it hurt just thinking about the last time he saw Dean, and the pain was written all over his face. Kate, realising she wasn't going to get 'Tommy' to open up any more than that, decided to quit while she was ahead.

"Look, Tommy, I'm not going to push you," she said, taking Sam by surprise: he'd fully expected her to keep digging. "There's obviously a lot going on in your head, and if you ever_want_ to talk about it... well, secrets aren't so heavy when you share them with someone else." Kate was trying to tell him she was there to listen if Sam wanted to talk, but he was just relieved to be able to change the subject. Fortunately for him, dinner was over shortly after that and he was able to get away without any further revelations.

When he got back to his motel room, Sam threw himself back on the bed with a sigh, kicked his shoes off and shut his eyes. Kate wanted to help, but she just didn't understand; his relationship with Dean was _beyond _complicated, and no amount of talking and explaining and sharing with her was going to change that.

And yeah, she was smart and he liked her, but it wasn't like he could tell her the whole truth. What was he going to say? "My brother and I have spent our lives criss-crossing the country hunting monsters. Recently, while Dean was in Hell, I got addicted to demon blood. Then I broke the final Seal, let Lucifer out of his cage and started the Apocalypse." Yeah, right. No sooner would the words be out of his mouth than she'd probably Mace him.

"Why did she have to bring this up?" Sam asked the empty room, throwing an arm over his eyes. He'd been having a nice night, and now he couldn't stop thinking about Dean and how they'd split up. He'd done a really good job of repressing those thoughts lately, but now Sam found himself playing the scene over and over in his mind, like he had for the first week after he'd arrived in Blue Springs.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

_Colorado; four months earlier_

Sitting in the passenger seat as the Impala hurtled down I-70, doing 10mph over the limit, Sam could tell Dean had something on his mind.

Sam stole a glance over at his brother: Dean's face was set in that stony expression he wore when he was percolating about something unpleasant, and he was tapping his right thumb on the steering wheel. He hadn't said a word to Sam since they'd left River Pass.

While Sam was trying to think of something to say that wouldn't get his head bitten off, Dean suddenly pulled off the road, parked the Impala in a deserted rest stop and got out, all without saying a word. Sam watched him start pacing beside the car, then took a deep breath and slowly got out to join his brother. Apparently, Dean was going to start the conversation _for_ him.

While he waited for Dean to articulate whatever was on his mind, Sam stood by the driver's door wiping dust off the chrome with his finger and feeling like he'd been summoned to the principal's office. As he watched his brother pacing up and down like a caged lion, Sam couldn't help but imagine what was going on in Dean's head.

If he was honest with himself, Sam figured he pretty much knew what had Dean tied up in knots. He hoped he was wrong, but he didn't really believe for a second that he was. This was _not_ going to be a pleasant conversation.

After half a minute, Dean stopped pacing and stood in front of his little brother, a rarely-seen deadly serious expression on his face. Sam felt his heart rate jump as Dean looked him straight in the eye.

"We can't go on like this, Sam._ I_ can't go on like this." Dean sighed, closing his eyes and scrubbing a hand over his face. "I feel like I have to watch you 24/7, man, and I just _can't_. I'm so busy watching you that I can't do the job properly," he continued, eyes focused back on Sam. They both knew younger Winchester understood exactly what Dean was talking about.

"I know you know what I mean, Sam." Dean raised his eyebrows, voice low. Sam sighed and sat on the front corner of the Impala while Dean stood and waited silently, arms folded and every muscle in his body tense.

Sam had looked off into the trees by the side of the highway then, knowing exactly how this was going to end. He understood all to clearly that whatever semblance of a relationship still existed between the Winchester boys wouldn't cope with what Sam had to say next.

Even so, he went on. "It's all I can think about," Sam admitted, his voice almost a whisper. Dean bit his bottom lip, closing his eyes briefly and wishing they didn't need to have this conversation. This was the last thing he'd wanted to do, but he knew they had to talk about this. While they were both still alive to do it.

"In the grocery store, when I killed those demons - those _people_ - with the knife... I didn't notice they didn't light up when they died. I didn't see it because I couldn't take my eyes off the blood." Sam had looked up at Dean then, but he couldn't stand the heartbroken look on his brother's face and had to look back down at the gravel under his boots.

"You were right when you said you needed to watch me, Dean. The hold the demon blood had on me is still there, but that's only part of the problem." Sam continued, eyes downcast. Dean had opened the floodgates, and now Sam found himself compelled to tell him everything that had been rattling around in his head lately.

"If I thought we needed it, I'd do it all again. I mean, if it could stop Lucifer I'd go straight back down that road, all the while telling myself it was for the right reasons. And maybe it would be." Sam sighed. "But I liked it far too much, Dean. I liked the feeling it gave me." Sam was being brutally honest, finally, and he knew it hurt Dean to hear this. It was written all over his big brother's face.

"You can't be a hunter while you want demon blood, Sam," Dean told him softly, and Sam sighed.

"I know. I shouldn't be anywhere near this Apocalypse, Dean. I shouldn't be anywhere near _you_."

When he heard that, Dean flinched like he'd been slapped. He'd wanted to protest, to tell Sam that he needed him by his side, but that wasn't true. Sam and Dean would both be safer when Dean didn't have to keep one eye on his little brother.

They both knew it: _Dean would be better off without him_.

Sam looked back up at Dean then, and his big brother's hazel eyes were shining with tears. "If your head isn't in the game, you're going to get someone hurt. Probably me." Dean told him, quietly, and Sam almost burst into tears right there. That was the _last_ thing he wanted to do - he'd rather die than see Dean hurt.

"If I can't trust you to watch my back, then I need to be on my own."

It hurt Dean to say that; Sam knew it without a doubt. He also understood that Dean didn't want him to go, but they both knew he had no choice.

And so, just like that, it was decided. Sam had taken two bags from the Impala, containing all his worldly possessions, and hitched a ride to Blue Springs, Missouri. Both Winchester boys had spoken to Bobby in the months since, but hadn't said one word to each other.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Sam was jolted back to reality by the harsh ringing of his mobile phone. It had gotten late since he'd started his stroll down memory lane, and what little light made it through the curtains from the motel's neon sign illuminated the room with a soft blue glow.

Absently rubbing his eyes, Sam got up and stumbled across the room towards the phone, swearing when he stubbed his toe hard against an anonymous piece of furniture hidden in the shadows. He limped the rest of the way to the kitchen bench and picked up his still-ringing Blackberry.

He checked the caller ID with bleary eyes, and what he saw nearly made him drop the phone.

* * *

><p><em>Set-up complete. :) I've been writing this out of order, so there are fragments just waiting to be fleshed out and put together... More (darker) chapters will follow soon! (Promise!)<em>

_In the meantime, maybe you'd like to let me know what you thought so far...? ;)_


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

D

Sam stared at that single letter, suddenly wide awake.

_Dean_.

Sam hadn't heard a word from Dean since they'd gone their separate ways in Colorado. He'd been trying really hard to live his normal life, away from the looming Apocalypse, and Dean had evidently decided to leave his little brother to it.

Sam had almost dialled Dean's number a few times, usually after a hard night at work or a few too many beers, when he was feeling alone and just wanted to hear his brother's voice. Now, _Dean_ was calling _him_, and Sam was suddenly afraid to answer the phone.

A shortlist of possible disasters that would make Dean reach out to him flashed through his mind as he pressed the 'answer' button with a shaky finger and put the phone to his ear.

_"Sam?"_

Sam let out a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding.

"Dean? What's wrong?" Sam asked, softly, all kinds of possible catastrophes still running through his head.

_"Nothing's wrong, Sam, don't worry,"_ Dean replied, and he could hear the thinly-veiled anxiety in his brother's voice. Dean was obviously just as edgy as Sam, which made the younger Winchester feel a little better. Nice to know he wasn't the only one.

Sam leaned against the bench and ran a hand through his hair, taking a couple of deep breaths. Here he was, on the phone with Dean - _finally_ - and his mind was racing, full of things he wanted to say to his brother. He just didn't know where to start...

Dean took Sam's silence as a cue to continue. _"Look, I'm calling because I'm coming through Missouri on Tuesday. Could we... I don't know, meet up for a beer or something?"_ The nerves were obvious in Dean's voice now. He was putting himself out there, and he wasn't sure Sam would say yes.

Sam could hardly believe what he was hearing. "Uh - yeah." he answered, after a short pause, when he finally found his voice. "That sounds great." Sam found himself grinning as he thought about having a drink with Dean. He'd missed that - he'd missed having a brother.

_"Awesome,"_ Dean breathed, sounding as relieved as Sam felt.

"I'm staying at the Motel 6 off I-70. If I'm not here, I'll probably be at Johnny Blue's - it's a bar, by the highway." Sam told him, well aware that Dean had probably known exactly where to find his baby brother for the last four months.

_"Doing a little drinking lately, are we?"_ Dean asked lightly, although he was only half-joking.

"No, Dean, I work there." Sam rolled his eyes. Two minutes on the phone and it was like they'd never been apart.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Sam slept better that night than he had in weeks. Knowing he'd see Dean soon seemed to calm his subconscious - his nightmares had even stopped. For the first time since he'd walked away from his brother in Colorado, Sam felt at peace. Hopeful, even.

Sam's bright new outlook wasn't lost on Kate during their next shift together, the night before Dean said he'd get into town.

Kate set her tray of empty beer bottles down on the bar and leaned over, studying Sam closely as he polished a glass tumbler. "What?" he asked finally, a little smile on his face as he put down that glass and picked up the next.

"Who are you and what have you done with Tommy?" Kate asked, wearing her best look of mock concern and trying not to spoil it with the grin threatening to break out across her face.

Sam laughed at that, and Kate looked slightly bewildered; Sam (and consequently 'Tommy') almost never laughed. Certainly not like that, anyway - she was so used to the strained chuckling of 'Tommy' that Sam's easy, lilting laughter caught her by surprise. Sam finished polishing the glass in his hands and picked up a third before he answered.

"My brother's coming into town tomorrow. We're going to do a little catching up." Sam told her, eyes shining. He just couldn't keep the smile off his face. Kate found herself smiling too - this new genuine happiness of Sam's was infectious.

"I'm glad to hear it, honey." she said warmly, as she started emptying her tray. "Oh - speaking of catching up, there were a couple of older guys here looking for you earlier. Said they were old friends of someone called Sam Winchester?" Kate said casually, not seeing the smile vanish from Sam's face as a shiver ran down his spine.

"Huh. Why were they looking for me, then?" Sam asked coolly, after a short pause, though all kinds of alarm bells were ringing in his mind. Nobody he wanted to see would come looking for him under the name 'Sam Winchester'.

"I told them I didn't know anybody called Sam, and they gave me a description of the guy they were looking for - it was weird, 'cause it fit you to a T." Kate continued, eyes focused downward as she wiped her tray clean with a damp cloth. She didn't see the anxiety on Sam's face as he stopped polishing the glass, instead clutching it tightly in his giant hand as he thought this new development through.

Sam was, in fact, having a very discreet panic attack. He had made _sure_ that Dean and Bobby were the only ones that knew he'd gone to Blue Springs, and they sure as hell hadn't spread it around. That meant these two guys, who were almost certainly hunters, had tracked him down: and Sam was _not_ an easy guy to find.

That they'd gone to so much trouble to find him made Sam think that he knew exactly what they wanted to talk to him about. He hadn't thought the fact that he'd single-handedly started the Apocalypse was common knowledge, but this new development certainly seemed to suggest otherwise.

"They said they might come back tonight and ask around again. They seemed really keen to find this guy, whoever he is." Kate shrugged, and picked up her tray.

"Let me know if you see them." Sam replied casually, miraculously managing to keep the anxiety out of his voice.

"Sure." Kate smiled brightly and headed back out onto the floor.

Sam immediately put down the glass and cut through the kitchen to the back of the building, making a quick exit through the deliveries door into the dark alley out back. He couldn't afford to hang around and wait for a pair of hunters to find him, a sitting duck in a stained white apron.

Sam knew he had to get out of Blue Springs, right the hell _now_: he had absolutely no desire to find out why these hunters had spent so much time and energy tracking him down. The guy that started the Apocalypse mustn't be popular among hunters, and these ones probably weren't in town to give him a fruit basket. Sam figured he'd better head for Bobby's place - he'd be safe there, and South Dakota wasn't all that far away...

First things first, though: put some distance between him and Blue Springs.

Sam hadn't taken more than five steps down the alley when he came face-to-face with an anonymous figure in the shadows. Sam stopped dead in his tracks, eyes drawn the revolver in the man's hand. This had to be one of the hunters in town looking for him.

"Sam Winchester." The stranger had a thick Louisiana accent and a fiendish little smile on his face; like the cat that ate the canary.

Before Sam could say a word he felt a sudden, sharp pain in the side of his neck. Surprised, he turned to look behind him and immediately realised what had happened: a man Sam hadn't even known was there had come up behind him and emptied a syringe into the big muscles of his neck...

Everything suddenly got fuzzy then, and Sam's legs turned to jelly and went from under him. He slumped to the ground, still with just enough control of his limbs that he was able to break his fall. Dazed, he looked up and saw the hunter with the Southern accent standing over him, his revolver pointed directly at Sam's left temple.

"You've been a bad boy, Sam," the man admonished him, that evil little smile still on his face. Sam wanted to tell him this was all a big misunderstanding and that he could explain, but found he couldn't make his mouth work to form the words. That didn't matter much, though; whatever was in that syringe had found its way to his brain and he couldn't think of anything coherent to say anyway.

As Sam lay helpless on the ground at gunpoint, he felt a wave of profound tiredness sweep over him - all he wanted to do was sleep. He knew that sleeping was the last thing he should do, but he was just _so tired_...

Struggling to stay awake, Sam watched as a beaten-up red pickup stopped in front of him. He finally lost the battle and drifted off into unconsciousness as the two strangers securely bound his wrists and ankles, and was out like a light by the time they began loading him into the back seat.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Dean rolled into Blue Springs late Tuesday morning, and made a beeline for the Motel 6 off Interstate 70. He'd been driving for days, and he was looking forward to laying eyes on his little brother.

Dean knew it had been the right thing to do, letting Sam walk away after River Pass. Sammy needed to get away from the life, and Dean had no choice but to let him go. In reality, the last thing he'd wanted was for Sam to leave - the thought tied his insides in knots - but the only thing scarier than his baby brother being alone (_unprotected_, in Dean's mind) was the very real possibility that if they continued on like they were, they'd both end up dead.

Just because it had been the right thing to do didn't mean the last four months hadn't been miserable, though. Dean had stayed on the road, hunting everything he could find - various spirits, a handful of ghouls, a revenant and even a couple of shapeshifters - but it just wasn't the same without Sam. And not only because Dean now had to do all his own research; he missed Sam obsessively cleaning their weapons, sweet-talking witnesses with his damn puppy-dog eyes... God help him, he even missed the kid's salad fetish.

Dean couldn't keep the smile off his face as he pulled up to Sam's room at the Blue Springs Motel 6. If Sam asked he'd deny it, but Dean had missed his baby brother.

Having parked the Impala, Dean went up to Sam's door and knocked. He was surprised when there was no answer - it was 10:30 in the morning, and Sam wasn't a late sleeper. Dean figured he was probably at work, and got back into the Impala for the short drive to Johnny Blue's.

When Dean walked into the bar, he immediately noticed two things: firstly, that there were far more people drinking in Blue Springs than there should be at this hour of the morning. Secondly, he noticed the petite red-headed young waitress standing behind the bar.

Dean smiled to himself and walked over – he leaned on the counter, watching as Kate sorted receipts. She barely even looked up. "What can I get you?" she asked in that faded Southern accent of hers, focused on the last few slips of paper.

"I'm actually looking for my brother," Dean replied, and Kate instantly looked up - that got her attention. Her eyes went wide as she saw what was standing in front of her.

"You must be Dean." She smiled coquettishly, as her eyes took in every detail of this handsome stranger. Dean had on his best flirting smile as he admired her right back. She had the most gorgeous golden brown eyes...

"So you know my brother, huh?" he asked, and Kate nodded. Dean discovered he very much liked the way her red hair rippled when she did that.

"My name's Kate, and I was here when Tommy started about four months back," she told him, receipts forgotten. Dean almost burst out laughing - to him, the name 'Tommy' didn't fit Sam at all.

"So is he around?" Dean kept his composure, though, and got to the point. His desire to see Sam was overpowering the urge to get to know this waitress better - a rare occurrence.

"He was here last night, but he took off early - I didn't see him after about 10pm. He's not rostered on again till tomorrow night," Kate said honestly, unable to take her eyes off him. Dean had tuned out slightly at this point, his mind occupied with where Sam might have got to.

"You know, the last time I saw him was when I told him about the other guys that were looking for him," Kate added, thoughtfully, and she suddenly had Dean's full attention again.

"Other guys?" he asked, brow furrowed as he leaned further over the bar, and Kate nodded again. This time Dean wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention to her hair.

"Two older guys - kind of grizzled looking, y'know? - came around yesterday afternoon looking for someone. They said they were friends of a 'Sam Winchester', and their description of the guy they wanted to see fit your brother perfectly." Kate retold her story for the other Winchester brother, as Dean concealed a similar panic attack to the one Sam had experienced about 12 hours earlier.

"I told them I didn't know anyone called Sam, and they said they were going to come back later that night and ask around when the bar was full," she told him, and Dean felt his stomach drop as it dawned on him what had probably happened. He'd thought something wasn't right when Sam hadn't been in either place he'd told Dean to look, but now he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that something was _very_ wrong.

"Did you see them come back?" he asked Kate, seriously, all trace of his smile gone.

"You know, I didn't..." she replied, after a few seconds' thought. That was all Dean needed to hear: he knew exactly what - _who_ - had happened to Sam.

"Thanks, Kate." Dean left the redhead standing at the bar and went straight back outside to the Impala, as Kate wondered what she'd said to make this gorgeous guy take off like that.

As soon as Dean got out the door he tried calling Sam. When the phone rang out and went to voicemail, Dean did the only other thing he could think of: he called Bobby.

Bobby picked up on the eighth ring, sounding like he'd just woken up. _"Dean?"_ he grunted, and Dean could just imagine Bobby waking up at his desk, having only fallen asleep in the small hours before dawn. He'd developed a bad habit of sleeping at his desk since the Apocalypse had taken over their lives.

"Bobby, Sam's missing." Dean got straight to the point, and it took Bobby a second to process that.

_"What do you mean, Sam's missing?"_ Bobby hadn't quite grasped what Dean was trying to tell him - probably because Dean had given him absolutely no details at all.

"I mean I can't _find_ him!" Dean snapped back. He was pacing alongside the Impala, not suppressing his panic attack so well anymore.

_"Wait - back up. You're in Blue Springs?"_ Bobby was wide awake now. Dean stopped pacing, scrunched his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. He took a deep breath, then tried to explain the situation calmly.

"I came to Blue Springs to see Sam. We had a plan to get together, but he's not at his motel room or at work, and there were two other guys here yesterday looking for a 'Sam Winchester'. Now no-one knows where he is and he's not answering his phone." Dean told Bobby, trying not to yell. This wasn't Bobby's fault, and Dean didn't need to be drawing attention to himself by having a one-man screaming match by the side of the highway.

Bobby was silent for a few seconds before he replied. _"We're thinking these other two guys are hunters, right?"_ The older hunter was sure as hell thinking it, and he knew Dean must be thinking it too.

"Well, they have to be, don't they? Who else goes looking for Sam Winchester?" Dean sighed, sitting on the front right corner of the car and running a hand through his hair.

_"Hunters looking for Sam is not a good thing. You need to find that boy."_ Bobby made no attempt to conceal his concern as he told Dean what the elder Winchester already knew.

"I know, Bobby, but I have no clue where to look! I need some help." Dean didn't know where to _start_ - that was why he'd called Bobby in the first place.

The line went silent while Bobby thought. "Well?" Dean demanded, after a short pause; he was in no mood to wait.

_"Hold your horses, Dean - I think I know someone that can help us,"_ Bobby replied, and Dean heard him rummaging through some papers.

_"Ah - here it is."_ Bobby had evidently found what he was looking for. _"Pamela had a cousin that lived in Ka__n__sas City, and she was almost as a good a psychic as Pam was - that girl can find damn near anything."_ he continued, but Dean's patience had nearly run out.

"You found Lilith just fine, Bobby - why not use the same mojo to find Sam?" Dean didn't understand why Bobby didn't just get out his tripod pendulum thing and track Sam down that way.

_"Because the damn Witnesses broke it and I haven't been able to find another one!"_ Now Bobby was getting irritated: apparently those tripod things were kind of rare, and he was evidently still sore about losing the one he had.

Dean sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Okay. So call this relative of Pam's and fill her in, and let her work her magic," Dean told him, making a conscious effort to calm down. Snapping at Bobby wasn't going to help him find Sam.

Bobby was quiet for a second before he answered. _"She's going to need som__e__thing of Sam's, Dean. You need to go and see her."_ He broke the news as gently as he could, but Dean still didn't take it well.

"You want me to drive to _Kansas City_? _Seriously_?" Despite his best efforts, Dean found himself shouting into the phone. That was _not_ what he'd wanted to hear. He couldn't afford to waste hours driving into Kansas City and then on to wherever Sam was!

_"Do you have a better idea?"_ Bobby asked, simply, and Dean sighed. He knew Bobby was right, and he shouldn't be getting mad at the guy when he was trying to help, but these bastards had a 12-hour head start already... and Dean was trying real hard not to imagine what had happened in those 12 hours.

"Okay - okay, I'm sorry. Just... give me the address and I'll hit the road, all right?" Dean _was_ sorry, but he also wanted to get on the road as soon as he possibly could. Even as he was talking to Bobby, he was unlocking the driver's side door.

_"514 Independence Avenue: it's just off I-435, if memory serves. Her name's Mel, and she'll be expecting you."_ Bobby couldn't blame Dean for being short-tempered: this was Sam they were talking about. His little brother was all Dean had left.

"Thanks, Bobby. I'll call you when I know where he is." Dean grabbed a map from the back seat as he got into the car, and hung up the phone before Bobby had a chance to reply. He'd located Independence Ave in under a minute, and was pulling out onto the highway only seconds later, tyres squealing. Those hunters weren't going to have Sam for a second longer than was absolutely necessary. Dean would make sure of that.

* * *

><p><em>And that's chapter two. :) Stay tuned: more Limp!Sam to follow!<em>

_Remember: reviews are love! ;)_


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Dean broke the speed limit all the way to Kansas City. He made it to Independence Avenue in just over an hour, slowed down by some infuriating roadworks on I-435 that meant he had to take the scenic route through Blue Valley, and spent the whole drive doing his level best not to imagine what Sam's last 12 hours had been like.

The Impala pulled up by the curb in front of number 514 at about midday, and Dean grabbed a beaten-up old book from under the front seat before he got out.

The book was Sam's. Dean had never looked close enough to know, but it was an early edition of _To Kill a Mockingbird_ - from the second print run. Sam had picked it up when he was thirteen, for 50 cents from a garage sale in some small town in the middle of nowhere. It had helped keep him occupied while John was off on a hunt and he and Dean were left on lockdown in the motel room, and he'd read it a couple of times a year ever since.

Dean checked the place out as he walked up the driveway. It was an old double-storey house from the early 1900s, made of white weatherboards with gables in the roof and stained glass panels at the top of all the sash windows. A veranda sheltered the length of the ground floor, enclosed by red and yellow roses growing in garden beds set under the railing.

As Dean walked up the steps leading onto the veranda, he noticed a variety of small plants growing among the roses. Sam could have named them all, but Dean recognised about half - yarrow and Devil's Shoestring among them - and they made him kind of uneasy; last time he'd seen all these plants in one place, he'd been standing in a witch's herb garden.

_What the hell kind of psychic has a garden like this? Bobby didn't say anything about Pam's cousin being a witch! _At least, Dean didn't think he had; after Bobby had said Mel could find Sam, and that Dean would have to go to Kansas City to make that happen, all he had been able to think about was getting on the road...

Dean put all witch-related thoughts out of his head as he approached the front door. _It doesn't matter if she's a witch or not. She can find Sam._

As he knocked on the solid oak door, Dean noted the cat's eye shells in the windchimes, then the small Five-Spot decorating a pot of bloodroot sitting on the windowsill to his right. He tore his gaze away from the sigils and protection charms scattered around him as he heard footsteps on the floorboards inside, and his eyes went wide when he saw the young woman who opened the door.

Pam's cousin was a few years younger than she had been, but the two of them could have been sisters. Mel had porcelain skin, wavy chestnut hair that reached down to her waist, and when Dean looked into her emerald eyes he could swear it was Pamela looking back at him. She even had a Rolling Stones t-shirt on.

"You must be Dean Winchester." Mel smiled brightly, her eyes taking in every detail of the man standing on her doorstep.

"Uh - yeah," was the only reply Dean could manage. He was used to people looking him up and down, but it was going to take him a minute to get over the shock of coming face-to-face with Pamela's doppelganger.

"My name's Mel. I hear you need someone found?" she asked, stepping aside and ushering Dean in. She shut and locked the door behind them as Dean subtly checked out the interior of the house. The diffuse sunlight that filtered through the lace curtains fell on dark polished floorboards littered with antique furniture, hundreds of books in huge bookcases, and an oak staircase leading up to the second floor. To Dean, it felt kind of like Bobby's house - only, you know, _tidy_.

"I'm looking for my brother," Dean told Mel, distracted by yet more herbs and protection charms littering the entryway. "You expecting company?" he asked, eyebrows raised as he picked up a metal bowl that looked like it contained pot-pourri - Dean, though, recognised at least three different magical herbs in the mix.

Mel laughed, absently playing with the anti-possession charm on her necklace. "When you live in the world we do, you can never be too careful. When you have a house, Dean, you'll do exactly the same thing." She winked at Dean, who was trying to work out if this hypothetical house of his was Mel illustrating her point or telling his future.

"I suppose you noticed my little herb garden among the roses, too? You know, it's very difficult to grow Devil's Shoestring and Goldthread side-by-side like that. If I do say so myself." Mel smiled as she led Dean up the dimly-lit hallway, past oil paintings and sculptures depicting a variety of mythologies, into the contrastingly bright and modern kitchen. She'd evidently been making tea when Dean had knocked on the front door.

As Mel poured two cups of the sweet-smelling brew, Dean noticed more bloodroot and some sage growing in small pots on the kitchen windowsill. "Look, I don't wanna rush you or anything, but I'm kind of in a hurry here..." Dean trailed off as he took the cup Mel handed him, trying not to sound like a total ass. He didn't want to piss off the psychic, but he also didn't have time to waste standing around chatting over tea.

"I've already set everything up. I'm ready to get started." Mel sipped her tea, looking at Dean over the rim of her cup. She was suddenly much more serious - she didn't need to be psychic to know he was under a lot of stress.

When he'd called that morning, Bobby had warned Mel that Dean might be a little... raw. He'd told her to be as prepared as she could be when he arrived, because Dean wouldn't want to waste a second - apparently, his baby brother being in any kind of danger made him a little crazy.

When he'd turned up on her doorstep, though, Mel had actually been surprised how calm and collected Dean looked. He was hiding the stress well, so Mel had found herself being much brighter and more cheerful than she'd intended. Now, she was starting to see hints of what Bobby had warned her about: some real intensity was simmering just below the surface. But Dean looked like he had it under control - for now, anyway.

"The book is Sam's, I take it?" Mel asked, leading Dean through to the back of the house and into a huge room that had originally been a parlour. Now it was overflowing with candles, dried herbs, crystals and various ritual supplies, and one whole wall was covered in bookshelves housing a collection of occult tomes that would make even Bobby proud.

"Yeah, Bobby said you'd need something of his." Dean put his tea down on a side table, untouched, and joined Mel at a circular table in the centre of the room. "So how long is this going to take, do you think?" he asked, as he handed her the paperback. Dean _really _wanted to be back on the road.

"Don't worry, you should be out of here pretty fast," Mel assured him confidently, as she put the finishing touches on her ritual setup. The table was about 4 feet in diameter and covered with a wax-stained black silk cloth, upon which were arranged a brand-new white votive candle in a clear quartz holder, a beaten up brass bowl half-full of strong-smelling crushed herbs, and a detailed A3-sized map of Missouri.

As Mel put the book under the white candle, Dean found himself wondering where a psychic learned so much about witchcraft. "I was a psychic before I was a witch," she said, in reply to a question Dean was pretty sure he hadn't asked out loud.

"How did you... oh. Right." Dean got halfway through the question before he realised he already had the answer. _You're talking to a psychic, genius!_ He gave himself a mental headslap for that one.

"So - witch, huh?" Dean went on, innocently. He was trying to suppress his natural reaction to witches - this one was obviously in his head, and he didn't want to offend the best chance he had of finding Sam.

"Again, Dean, you're talking to a psychic." Mel smiled knowingly. "It's okay, you know. I don't string up bunnies or anything." She chuckled, and Dean almost smiled before he realised that she'd pulled the bunny image straight out of his head - he'd never forget those witches who'd been working for the demon that Ruby originally sold her soul to...

"Okay, great. Look, I'm just going to sit quietly over here now and think about absolutely nothing while you do... whatever it is you do." Dean smiled the least-sheepish smile he could manage and sat down on a nearby chair, trying not to put his foot in his mouth again - verbally or otherwise.

Mel just smiled, obviously completely used to people's thoughts giving away their true feelings, and got on with the ritual.

She started by saying a short incantation in a language that Dean recognised as Latin, then lit the votive candle with a silver lighter. After another couple of sentences in Latin, she put the votive candle to the bowl of herbs and set them alight, before placing the candle - flame now burning azure blue - back on top of Sam's book.

The herbs burned away in seconds, giving off a 6-inch-high blue flame that almost immediately went out. Mel passed the map through the tendrils of white smoke rising up from the incinerated herbs, then touched the corner of the map to the votive candle's flame, placed it on the table and stepped back. Dean was surprised when the tablecloth didn't catch fire as the corner of the map began to burn.

As he watched the 1-inch-high blue flame creep across the map, Dean realised he knew what Mel was doing. This was how Ruby had found him when Cas and Uriel had spirited him away to torture Alastair - Sam had described the ritual in detail while Dean had been recuperating in hospital.

What happened next, however, had not been part of Sam's experience. The blue flame suddenly quadrupled in size and devoured the map with a _whooshing_ sound, turning it to grey ash in seconds. Dean looked over at Mel, and she seemed just as shocked as he was.

Mel's eyes narrowed as she looked at the pile of ash that used to be the map, brow furrowed as she thought. "What the _hell_ just happened?" Dean demanded, getting out of the chair and going over to the table - he knew from the look on Mel's face that something had gone wrong.

"It didn't work." She sounded puzzled as she stared at the pile of ash.

Suddenly, before he could say another word, Mel looked up from the ash and directly into Dean's eyes. "What took your brother?" she asked, her expression deadly serious.

"Not what, _who_," Dean told her, then paused. "A pair of hunters," he added, really not keen to elaborate further.

A look of understanding washed over Mel's face, and she nodded slowly. "That makes sense." She bit her bottom lip as she turned back to the table, more questions running through her head - mostly, '_Why?_'

Mel couldn't imagine a reason for hunters to kidnap another hunter, but the look in Dean's eyes told her not to ask, so she didn't. It didn't take a psychic to see that it was a sensitive topic, and Dean had buried that whole subject deep enough in his subconscious that Mel couldn't get to it.

"_How_ does that make sense?" Dean demanded. He was shouting now, the lid he'd been keeping on the fear and anxiety smoldering inside him threatening to fly open.

_This is what Bobby meant_, Mel realised. This was why he'd told her not to waste time. Suddenly, she was acutely aware that there was a real possibility Dean could lose control, and she had absolutely no desire to be the cause of that.

"Those hunters have done a ritual to mask their location. They obviously thought someone might go looking for them, like I just did," Mel explained, gathering her hair back into a ponytail.

"Can you find them?" Dean asked, simply but intensely. He was making a real effort to get the lid back on his emotions - Mel could feel him regaining control, and she let herself relax.

"Oh, yeah. These sons of bitches can't hide from me," Mel replied, a little smile on her face as she started clearing the table. _I'm not going to be beaten by a couple of amateurs. Not this witch - not today_.

"How long?" Dean just knew he wouldn't like the answer to that question, but he had to ask.

"Longer, now. I'd hope to be done before dark though," Mel told him, honestly. Dean definitely _didn't_ like that, and it was written all over his face.

"Look, this is going to take some serious work now, Dean. These guys are well-hidden and it's going to take me some time to get a good result. I think you need me to be sure." She swept the ash off the table with one hand, right onto the floor. Dean sighed and scrubbed his own hand over his face, frustrated - she was right, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

"Any reason I can't get in my car right now and go back to Blue Springs?" Dean asked, seriously. _The ps__y__chic/witch has Sam's book now._ As far as Dean was concerned, his work was done.

"Actually, yeah. Two reasons." Mel stopped cleaning up and looked over at Dean. "Firstly, this other finding process will work better if the missing guy's brother is here with me," Mel began, looking at Dean like she expected him to have some sort of epiphany.

After a short pause, with Dean just looking back at her and waiting for her to go on, Mel sighed and continued. "Okay. How do you know your brother's anywhere near Blue Springs? What if you get back there and I find out he's five miles from my front door?" Mel pointed out what Dean immediately realised he should have known.

Apparently, Dean wasn't thinking as clearly as he'd imagined. Sure, there had been moments in the last couple of hours when he had almost let the lid get off the otherwise tightly-sealed panic, but he'd thought he had a handle on this. He _thought _he'd been objective and clear-headed.

"Okay, then." Dean sat back down in his chair and took a few deep breaths as Mel continued her clean-up. He really wanted to tell her to hurry, but he figured that probably wouldn't help.

"I know what's at stake. I'm going as fast as I can." Mel said, once again in answer to a question that Dean hadn't asked.

Dean hardly moved from his chair for the next seven hours. He watched Mel work her way through a series of rituals and - via her ouija board - several spirits as well. Just after 7:30pm, when it was almost completely dark outside, Mel stood back from the table and looked over at Dean.

"I know where he is."

Dean was standing next to her before she knew he'd moved. "Where?" He looked at the map on the table and Mel pointed out a small dot in Missouri.

"Odessa. In the industrial district, there's a big blue warehouse with a picture of a hawk on it. Start looking on Orchard Road," she said, and Dean could hardly believe his good fortune. She almost had a freaking _street address_!

"Thanks, Mel. When I get Sam, I'm bringing him back here to meet you." Dean promised, before he took off running out the door and down the hall. A few seconds later Mel heard her front door slam - Dean barely slowed down as he flung it shut behind him. She heard the Impala roar to life, then squealing tyres as Dean pealed away.

Mel left Sam's paperback among the mess from the day's work, and went straight for the collection of takeaway menus in her kitchen cupboard. She sighed as she slowly flicked through them, wishing she could see how it was going to turn out for Sam.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

It wasn't a long drive from Mel's place in Kansas City to the outskirts of Odessa, but the traffic around Blue Valley was terrible and it had taken Dean nearly 40 minutes to get back on I-435. From there, it had been a two-hour drive to Odessa - no great distance, especially when Dean broke the speed limit the whole way, but he would swear he's never taken a longer drive in his life.

By the time Dean arrived in Odessa, it was after 10pm and the industrial district was deserted. Judging by all the 'For Lease' signs, the place was probably pretty quiet during the day as well.

_Smart. A little cinderblock room in the middle of one of these huge warehouses... well-hidden and basically soundproof. They might as well be on the Moon. _The hunter in Dean could see why those mongrels would choose this area to hold Sam, but even briefly considering the reasons they might need seclusion like this turned his stomach.

Dean put those thoughts firmly out of his mind as he turned quietly onto Orchard Road - as quietly as is possible in a 7.0-litre V8 Impala, anyway. He drove slowly, leaning forward over the steering wheel and checking out every dark-coloured warehouse for an image of any kind of bird.

At that point, Dean honestly believed Orchard Road must be the worst-lit street in America. The streetlights – not all of which were working, mind you – were spaced so far apart that there were regular patches of almost utter darkness. To make matters worse, the road itself seemed to go on forever. "A street number would have been awesome," Dean said to himself, as he rolled over yet another cross-street.

Dean had driven almost a mile down the road and was starting to seriously doubt Mel's tracking abilities when he saw it: a cobalt blue warehouse that had, until recently, belonged to Hawkins Glass. There was a 'For Lease' sign hanging next to the hawk logo painted on the side of the building.

_Well I'll be damned. A blue warehouse with a picture of a hawk on it._ Apparently Bobby had been right - that cousin of Pamela's could find anything, masking ritual or not.

Dean's heart was pounding as he stopped the Impala well away from the streetlight outside the warehouse (naturally, when he wanted darkness, the streetlight was working perfectly).

_This is it. Sammy's in there._

Dean leaned over and retrieved his Colt from the glovebox. He took a deep breath as he ejected the clip, checked it, and reloaded. He got out of the car slowly, watching for any sign of movement in the warehouse and shutting his door as quietly as possible. _Can't let them know anybody's here - not yet._ They'd know all about it soon enough.

On the drive over, Dean had tried really hard not to think about what could be happening to Sam in that warehouse, and he'd managed to keep a lid on his imagination. But now, as he ran through the dimly-lit carpark towards the small door set into the side of the building, Dean had to face the fact that he might break into this warehouse just to find out he was too late.

Well, Dean's mind _tried_ to make him face it, anyway. In true Winchester fashion, he shut the door on the little voice in his mind that tried to warn him Sam might be dead already. Those thoughts weren't going to help. Instead, Dean pulled out his lockpick and set about getting into that warehouse.

It didn't take him long to get inside - Owen and Ray weren't expecting company, and the building's security sucked. Truth be told, there wasn't much in there worth securing: as he took a look around the huge, open space, Dean got the distinct impression that the battered red pickup parked nearby was the most valuable thing in the place.

When he was sure he was alone, Dean crept over and checked out the car, gun drawn and safety off, but found it empty. He reached in and snaked the keys from the ignition, stashing them safely in the front pocket of his jeans, even though he couldn't imagine a scenario in which these hunters would be driving away when he was done with them.

Dean was about to continue his search when a sound stopped him dead - a cry of pain like the ones he used to hear in Alastair's little corner of Hell.

Dean's breath caught in his throat as another cry reached his ears - muffled this time, like the person had been gagged. It was too late now, though; Dean would know that voice anywhere.

That was Sam.

* * *

><p><em>*overly-dramatic TV voice-over*<em>

_"Next, in 'Taken': who has Sam, and what do they have planned for the youngest Wi__n__chester? Tune in next time to find out!" ;)_

_Thanks to all the lovely people reading this saga, but *hugs* for those of you that took the time to review! :p_

_Special thanks to spnrules1, EvilSquirre1 and mmmmmriley for all the love - and to EvilSquirre1 for not se__t__ting the lock-picking zombie squirrels/possums/koalas on me... :)_


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

By the time Dean found the warehouse, Sam had barely been gone 24 hours. To Sam, though, it felt like an eternity.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Sam, ankles and wrists bound tight, had drifted in and out of consciousness in the back seat of the red pickup on the drive to Odessa.

The two hunters up front hadn't taken any chances with the famous Sam Winchester: they hadn't tied him up with rope, they'd used handcuffs instead. They hadn't been messing around when they'd set upon him in the alley behind Johnny Blue's either, having no desire to get into a fight with the younger Winchester. Whatever drug they'd injected him with was still making everything foggy, and - in addition to being fuzzy - the world was also spinning in a most unsettling fashion.

As Sam kept his eyes firmly shut to keep the nausea at bay, he wondered faintly if Dean had gotten into town yet and how long it would take his brother to realise something was wrong.

Through the drug-induced fog, Sam struggled to hear the conversation going on in the front. He could only make out a few words at first, but as it turned out he didn't need many: 'Lilith', 'convent' and 'cage' pretty much gave the game away.

These two were the hunters that had visited Johnny Blue's yesterday, and they _knew;_ they knew he had started the Apocalypse.

That realisation sent a shiver through Sam. These guys had tracked him down and set an ambush. Now he was tied up in the back seat of their car in the middle of the night, on his way to God-knows where... there were very few ways this scenario was likely to end, and Sam didn't much like the thought of any of them.

As they drove on, Sam's fog started to clear and he found it much easier to follow the conversation going on in the front seat. "Ray, the masking ritual is _important_. His brother hasn't been around lately, but if someone tries to find this kid we need to be hidden." The driver sounded stressed - he apparently thought someone might come looking for their captive. Sam could hear fingers drumming nervously on the steering wheel.

"She did the ritual, Owen. We'll stay hidden." The guy in the passenger seat - apparently named Ray - sounded exasperated, like Owen had made that same point repeatedly. Sam immediately recognised this voice: Ray was the one with the strong Southern accent. The one who had held the revolver to his head in the alley.

"Look, it's not that I don't trust her..." Owen obviously didn't, though. Sam heard it in his voice.

"For the last time: _she did the ritual!_" Ray growled, patience wearing thin. "And it's not like anyone's gonna come lookin' for this boy anyway," he scoffed. Owen stayed silent, and the conversation in the front seat dried up.

Now that he was feeling a little more clear-headed, Sam risked opening his eyes to check out his predicament. He found it was still night-time, and he was trussed up on the cracked brown vinyl seat of an old pickup which felt like it was driving down a highway - the ride was straight and smooth, and it felt like they were travelling at highway speed.

Sam had no clue where they were, though. He didn't know how long he'd been out, which direction they were driving... he didn't even really know who had kidnapped him. The only thing he could see in the back with him was a pair of beaten-up old duffel bags on the floor behind the front seats.

In an effort to find out where he was, Sam craned his neck to look out the passenger side window. Big mistake: the scenery rushing past the window made the dizziness exponentially worse, and Sam screwed his eyes shut as waves of nausea rolled over him.

_Okay - so no more looking out the window, then..._

Even when he felt the car turn off the highway, Sam couldn't keep track of the turns they made. Between the drug-induced haze in his brain and the waves of nausea that accompanied the sudden changes of direction, he wished he was still unconscious.

Sam's world hadn't quite stopped spinning when Owen finally pulled off the road, but at least he could open his eyes without wanting to throw up. He looked out the window as the pickup rolled to a stop, and it took him a few seconds to realise they were now in the dimly lit carpark of a warehouse. He heard Ray jump out of the cab and open a roller door so Owen could drive the pickup inside, and Sam's heart sank as he heard the door rattle shut behind them. How the hell was anyone going to find him when they'd parked the car _inside_ the warehouse...?

Owen got out and opened the back door, then reached in and grabbed Sam roughly by the arm. "Out you get, sunshine." Owen had a sinister little smile on his face as he manhandled Sam out of the back seat and dumped him unmercifully in a heap on the cold cement floor.

Sam landed hard on his left side, unable to break his fall with his hands cuffed behind his back, and all the air was driven out of his lungs in a rush by the unforgiving concrete. Lightning bolts of pain radiated from his ribs as he tried to breathe, but his diaphragm wouldn't cooperate - he couldn't get more than a few shallow gasps before Owen and Ray each grabbed one of his arms and hauled him up.

His head still foggy and now winded as well, Sam was dragged out of the empty warehouse space and into a smaller room. He knew he should be struggling and fighting to get free, but he just couldn't make his body move - his arms and legs felt like lead, and he was too securely bound. He was only just managing to get some air back in his lungs when Owen and Ray wordlessly dropped him to the floor in the centre of the room, knocking the air out of him all over again.

As he lay on the cold floor, struggling for breath with black spots dancing in front of his eyes, Sam distantly noticed as his hands were freed then immediately cuffed again - this time, in front of his body. While someone shut and locked the cuffs securely back around his wrists, Sam found he could take some shallow breaths and the black dots slowly started to disappear from his vision.

With its oxygen supply restored, Sam's brain began functioning again and he realised that Ray was tying _rope _around his wrists as well. Even through the lingering drug-induced haze, he recognised that was overkill.

_Huh - I must be _really_ dangerous if they need to tie me up with rope as well._

Any pleasure Sam was taking in being so dangerous evaporated as the rope tightened around his wrists and his cuffed hands were dragged up over his head. Before he knew what was happening, he was jerked to his feet as Ray pulled the rope tight over one of the steel beams in the ceiling, hanging Sam from it by his wrists. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Ray tied the rope off at a nearby steel pillar, making sure his captive was suspended high enough that his boots only just touched the floor.

"Gotta go get some toys now, but don't worry: we'll be right back. Don't go anywhere." Ray patted Sam on the cheek, a wicked little smile on his face. He left Sam hanging by his wrists and followed Owen out to the pickup.

Left alone and now able to breathe again, Sam took stock of his surroundings. The room appeared to have been a storage area of some kind: there was a beaten up old table pushed against the wall, plus a few old filing cabinets and metal shelves, and a couple of mismatched office chairs. The only light in the room was a dusty incandescent bulb hanging a couple of feet above his head, from the same steel beam Sam was suspended from. The windows were blacked out and securely covered with wire screens, and the floor was the same grey painted concrete as the warehouse outside.

Sam looked up at the colourful nylon climbing rope digging into his wrists, and it occurred to him that he'd have some awful bruises later - you know, if he _had_ a later. He tried briefly to work his hands through the loops of rope, but Ray was apparently really good at tying knots because Sam soon realised he wasn't going anywhere. He was only succeeding in chafing his wrists raw, and even if he did manage to get free from the rope, there were still those handcuffs to contend with...

_I hope you're quick on the uptake today, Dean,_ Sam thought. If he was going to get out of here, he'd need some help. Right now, he was going nowhere.

Owen and Ray didn't leave Sam alone for long. They came back with the duffel bags he'd seen on the floor in the back of Owen's pickup, and began unpacking the contents onto the table against the far wall.

Sam was wide awake now, almost all traces of the pharmaceutical fog having evaporated, and his mind was racing. He knew exactly what these 'toys' were for, although he couldn't see them - they sounded metallic and nasty, and Sam figured he could dismiss all but a couple of the possible scenarios he had imagined on the drive over. These guys definitely hadn't brought him here for a friendly chat.

Leaving Ray to finish unpacking, Owen came over to where Sam was hanging from the ceiling. "You know why you're here?" he asked, and Sam just looked back at him silently. Owen responded with a vicious right jab to the face, and Sam felt blood trickling down his chin - Owen had split his lip.

"You thought it was a secret, huh? That you let Lucifer out of his cage?" Owen punched Sam in the stomach this time, getting a groan out of the youngest Winchester and knocking him off his feet.

"I didn't mean to open the cage!" Sam gasped, the toes of his boots scrambling for purchase on the smooth concrete floor in an effort to stop himself swinging.

"Did you think nobody was ever gonna _find out_ about that?" the grizzled older hunter demanded, getting right in Sam's face.

"How did you know?" Sam asked, between gasps; he'd been wracking his brain trying to work it out.

"Owen and me were good friends of Gordon Walker's." Ray informed Sam, coming over to join his buddy.

_Oh, crap._ Sam's heart sank as soon as he heard the name 'Gordon Walker'. Just when he thought it couldn't get any worse...!

Ray had that evil smile of his on again as he continued. "See, we knew you opened that Devil's Gate in Wyoming a couple of years back. Kinda fuzzy on the details, though, and Gordon never did fill us in - we left you and that brother of yours alone because you seemed to get back on the straight and narrow. Back on our side, y'know?" Ray stood next to Owen, arms crossed, watching Sam intently.

"But then we exorcised this random garden-variety demon a few weeks back, and it tells us this _mind-blowing_ story... including the part about how you were at that convent the night Lucifer came topside." Owen took over the narrative, wearing his own little evil smile.

Sam opened his mouth to try and explain, but Owen cut him off. "Don't worry, Sammy, we know demons lie." he assured Sam.

"We made very sure that this one was... motivated... to tell us the truth." Ray added, smiling, and Owen chuckled.

"Everything that hellspawn told us checked out, Sam. Everything from how Gordon died to your demon girlfriend to you springing Lucifer from his cage." The smile was gone from Ray's face now, and Sam watched as anger flared in his eyes.

"You started the Apocalypse, and you _don't just get away with that_!" Ray got right up close to Sam, hanging helplessly from the rafters, and grabbed him roughly by the jaw.

"We've lost friends to Lucifer's hordes, Sam. Good friends. You can't start the ball rolling on the Apocalypse and then walk away," Ray told him, quietly but intensely. Sam just looked back - he knew there was nothing he could say was going to placate this psychopath. Right now, Ray reminded him very much of Gordon Walker.

"Thing is, Sam, this here isn't just about revenge and punishment. We're not sure you're on our side anymore." Ray abruptly let Sam go and started pacing in front of him. "We think you're on Satan's side, and we want to know what you know."

_These guys think I'm working for Lucifer. _Sam grasped exactly what Ray was saying, and his eyes went wide.

These hunters wanted revenge for their lost friends, and to visit their particular brand of justice on the guy they saw as being responsible for that - honestly, Sam could understand that. Once upon a time, he'd wanted to do exactly this to Yellow Eyes. What worried him most was that these guys apparently thought he had some kind of inside information on Lucifer. He didn't, of course, but Sam seriously doubted they'd just take his word for it.

Sam watched over Ray's shoulder as Owen left the room and went back out into the warehouse, but he barely had time to wonder why - suddenly, completely out of the blue, Ray punched him. He saw stars as blood began to trickle from a fresh cut under his left eye, mixing with the still-sticky trail from his split lip. He was trying not to show it, so as not to give this bastard the satisfaction, but that hurt like _hell_ - Ray was noticeably stronger than Owen.

"You know, honestly, I couldn't care less whether you know what Luci's doin' or not," Ray drawled, smiling cruelly. Sam's head slowly began to clear as his captor was talking, and the persistent pain in his cheekbone told him it was probably fractured. "What we're doing here... well, it's payback. If we learn something about the Devil while we're at it, that's just gravy." Ray stepped back a few feet, and his smile widened as he took in the sight before him.

"You know, I can hardly believe my eyes: the mighty Sam Winchester, bleeding and strung up from the rafters. I know a few people that are going to be jealous they weren't here - that they didn't see you break and start begging us to end you." Ray was still smiling as Owen walked back into the room.

He stopped just inside the door, and he wasn't alone - there was a slender young woman with him. She looked about Sam's age, had short black hair sprinkled liberally with purple streaks, and was dressed completely in black - black Levi's, black leather jacket over a black halter top, black biker boots and a black leather belt with two rows of silver studs along its length. She was actually quite pretty, in a Hell's Angels kind of way.

Sam didn't immediately recognise her for what she was. The penny only dropped when he saw tattoo-like marks appear all over her body, washing over her pale skin like a wave.

_What the _hell _are they doing with a Djinn...?_

Sam now knew what this thing was, but he still wasn't clear on what exactly Owen and Ray planned to do with it.

Ray went over to the Djinn, both he and Owen being careful not to touch it. "Remember what happens if you try anything funny: there's a silver knife just _dripping _in lamb's blood with your name on it. No poisoning this one - we're gonna put him out of his misery when we're good and ready." Ray warned the Djinn, which just glared at him.

As the Djinn turned its back on Ray and walked towards him, Sam wondered what leverage these two could possibly have over it to make it do their dirty work. And what the hell did Ray mean, '_poison_'...?

The Djinn stopped a foot in front of Sam, its irises glowing electric purple as it stared at him. Sam almost thought it looked apologetic, but for the life of him he couldn't understand why.

"I bet you're wondering why we're about to set a Djinn on you, aren't you Sam?" Ray whispered, inches from Sam's left ear. "I know you know the lore: Djinn send you off to live in a lovely dream inside your head while they feed on your blood and slowly drain the life out of you. They make a few days seem like a lifetime," he continued, walking around behind the younger Winchester as he remembered Dean's description of his Djinn-induced illusion - the 'wish-verse' had been so vivid he almost hadn't been able to tell it wasn't real.

"What I'm sure you _don't_ know is that Djinn grant wishes for their victims because people last longer when they're in a happy illusion. The Djinn can feed off them for days," Ray went on, as Sam's mind raced to put all the pieces together. Ray could almost hear the wheels turning, and he let Sam think it over for a few seconds - that was all the time he needed to work it out.

_Oh. _Suddenly, Sam understood why Ray and Owen had the Djinn. _They can get in people's heads to create wishes, so they must also be able to create nigh__t__mares..._

When they were planning this, Sam realised, his captors had evidently recognised that their 'toys' were probably going to kill him before he told them what they wanted to know. Obviously, they'd decided to try a Djinn first - if necessary, they could use his own mind to torture Sam for days. Much longer than he'd last if they started proceedings with the equipment in those duffel bags...

Ray saw realisation dawn on Sam's face, and he chuckled. "That's right, Sammy-boy. As much as we'd love to start slicing and tearing right away, we want to be sure you don't shuffle off the mortal coil before we've wrung out every last drop of information. We're gonna to start out nice and gentle-like." Ray was enjoying this. Sam could see it in his face.

"I don't have any information to _give_ you!" Sam protested, his heart rate rising. _This is bad... I don't have an__y__thing to _tell_ them!_

Again, Ray laughed. "We can't take your word for that and you know it." He patted Sam on the cheek, the evil little smile back on his face. Sam grimaced as Ray's rough, cold palm came into contact with his skin - he _really_ didn't want this lunatic to touch him, but there wasn't a whole lot he could do about it while he was hanging from the ceiling by his wrists.

"Anyway, Sam, we want you to remember that you can stop this any time you like. You've just gotta tell us what you know." Ray gave the Djinn a nod and went back to join Owen, who was leaning on the wall by the door.

The Djinn stepped closer and held up its right hand to Sam's forehead, palm glowing the same purple as its eyes. "Stop - please. You don't have to do this!" Sam looked into the Djinn's eyes, pleading, but it just shook its head.

"Let me help you. We can both get out of here!" Sam tried reasoning with it, but the Djinn smiled sorrowfully.

"You can't help me," it whispered, and Sam's eyes widened as the purple glow in its palm intensified. He tried to pull away, but the Djinn shut its eyes and placed its hand on his skin, and it was too late.

* * *

><p><em>Let the Limp!Sam begin...!<em>

_I'd love to know what you thought - review, please! I have discovered that reviews are like choc chip coo__k__ies... can never have enough. ;)__  
>Thanks to all the lovely people that have left me cookies so far... :)<em>


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Sam was surprised by how real the Djinn's illusion felt, and also that he was aware that's what it was.

_I can't stop this if I don't know it's not real. I guess if they want me to give them any information, I have to_ _know I'm being tortured first..._

Sam looked around him, almost admiring the Djinn's handiwork. It had created what looked like an old barn, with a pile of ancient-looking farm machinery in the corner, a few stable stalls in the back and loose straw scattered over the wooden floor. From where he stood in the middle of the building - in clean jeans, comfortable boots and his favourite flannel shirt - he could see moonlight filtering in through the high windows and smell the pale green hay bales stacked up by the stables. It was warm and dry and a million miles away from the warehouse where Sam knew he actually was.

_I can see how Dean thought his wish-verse was real. If the Djinn didn't want me to know this was all in my head, I wouldn't be able to tell the difference._

Before he could start wondering _why_ the Djinn had created this little slice of relative paradise when it was supposed to be torturing him, Sam saw movement near the stables. He was actually reaching for the knife he usually kept hidden in his jeans when a figure came into view - it was a young woman; slim, with long blonde hair and wearing a simple white dress. It took Sam a few seconds to comprehend what he saw in front of him.

_Oh my God. Jess._

When he saw her, Sam's brain just _forgot_ that this whole situation wasn't real. His response to seeing Jess came from a place beyond his rational, conscious mind, and the Djinn didn't remind him she was an illusion. _The sooner I can get this boy to break, the sooner those other hunters will let my sister go. Remind him later, when he might be ready to do something about it._

Jess smiled at Sam as she walked towards him. She looked every bit as angelic as Sam remembered, treading lightly on the straw as she glided closer. He started walking to meet her, smiling widely, his eyes never leaving her face. He'd dreamed about this for years now: Jess, alive, right here in front of him.

Sam was within a few steps of her when she suddenly stopped dead in her tracks, clasping her hands to her stomach. Sam stopped too, unsure what was happening.

Jess' smile disappeared, and her mouth formed a little 'O' of surprise as she looked down at her midsection. Sam's heart sank as he saw the red stain seeping out from under Jess' hands, staining the pure white dress an ugly scarlet.

Sam was frozen to the spot, watching the love of his life bleeding to death in front of him. _Please, no - not again! Don't make me watch this _again_!_

Jess looked up at Sam, her big blue eyes pleading with him to help her. He couldn't move - he could only watch as the red stain got ever bigger and Jess dropped to her knees in the straw. She looked down again and took one hand away from her body, sticky with blood that dripped onto the floor in front of her.

Through the torn, blood-soaked fabric, Sam saw the long, jagged wound that marred the pale skin of Jess' abdomen. His breath caught in his throat and tears stung his eyes as Jess' shoulders dropped and she slowly replaced the hand on her stomach.

She looked up at Sam from under her lashes, confusion filling her eyes. '_Why aren't you helping me?'_ they asked, silently; she didn't have to say a word. Her eyes said it all.

Sam wanted more than anything to run to Jess. He knew there was nothing he could do - there was _never_ anything he could do - but she needed him, and Sam didn't want to let her die alone. Not again. But no matter how hard he tried, Sam couldn't move - it was like he was paralysed. He couldn't even call out to her.

Jess' eyes were bright with tears, and they now stared accusingly at Sam. '_What's wrong with you? __Help me__!'_ they screamed, and Sam felt tears of his own rolling down his cheeks. She was dying, right here in front of him

_(again)_

and he couldn't do a damn thing about it

_(again)_

Jess was deathly pale now, and the straw on the floor around her was stained red with blood. Too much blood, Sam knew; there was nothing he was going to be able to do, even if he could get to her. That didn't stop him trying with every fibre of his being, though.

As Jess' eyes lost their focus and she slid down onto the floor, Sam could swear he actually felt his heart tear in two. Tears ran freely down his face as Jess' eyes fluttered shut and her bloodied hands fell away from her stomach, dropping lifelessly to the red straw beneath her.

Sam wanted to scream. He'd let it happen again. Jess had died _right in front of him_, almost within reach, and he hadn't saved her.

He dropped to his knees beside Jess' body, movement restored only after she was beyond help. Sam closed his eyes for a second, wondering briefly what he'd done to deserve this. Something nagged at him in the back of his mind - something important, something about why he was here in this Godforsaken barn kneeling in a pool of his girlfriend's blood, but he just couldn't put his finger on it...

When Sam opened his eyes, the building seemed different. It had been a comfortable old barn, but to Sam it now felt like something out of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre - the place made his skin crawl. He looked around as he dried his cheeks with his sleeve, and noticed things he hadn't seen before: dirty tools with sharp-looking blades hanging on the wall to his left, big black spiders spinning webs all over the rusty old machinery in the corner and, furthermore, that there were no doors in this barn. Just four very solid looking walls. Sam also had the feeling that there was nothing and no-one around for miles.

"Well hello, Sam," a familiar voice said suddenly, from behind his right shoulder. Sam whirled around, and gasped when he found himself face-to-face with Alastair.

_No. This isn't possible. I killed him._

Sam knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he'd ended Alastair after the demon had very nearly murdered Dean in Cheyenne. He _knew_ - and yet, here the bastard was, standing right in front if him. And, to make matters worse, that Goddamn full-body paralysis was back and he couldn't move a muscle to even exorcise the evil sonofabitch that had tortured his brother for 30 years in Hell. Not to mention what Dean had been doing to himself ever since Cas had pulled him back upstairs... and now, when he was just two feet away, Sam had no choice but to stand there and watch Alastair smile at him.

Sam felt the rage burning in the pit of his stomach as Alastair walked right up to him and put his hand on the younger Winchester's shoulder. "It's been a long time, Sam. Haven't seen you since Cheyenne - I bet you're surprised to see me," the demon said in that high, nasal voice; he was so close Sam could smell the faint scent of sulphur on his paediatrician meatsuit's breath. "I have something to show you. Something I've wanted to do for a while now." Alastair gripped Sam's shoulder and turned him a little to the right.

Sam didn't think he'd ever get the image of Jess laying still and pale on the floor out of his head, but the object in front of him now was almost enough to take his mind off her. He'd never actually seen it before, but he immediately knew exactly what it was.

Sitting in front of Sam, about 7 feet away, was a crucifix-shaped table. It was height-adjustable, like a dentist's chair, but Sam had never seen a dentist's chair adorned with thick, brown leather straps like the ones on this monstrosity. From what little Ruby had wanted to tell him about her time under his razor, this was Alastair's favourite way to keep his victims restrained while he worked on them - Sam could see rust-coloured smears of blood scattered over the table. Just the thought of how they got there made his blood run cold.

"Don't worry, Sam, it's not for you," Alastair assured him, chuckling softly. He watched over Sam's shoulder as two anonymous demons dragged a limp, blindfolded victim to Alastair's torture table. Sam recognised this person instantly.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, discovering he had his voice back. He still couldn't move a muscle, but evidently Alastair wanted some conversation with his torture this evening, because he'd let Sam speak.

Alastair smiled as he watched Sam watch Dean. The eldest Winchester was only semi-conscious - Sam could see a nasty cut on his hairline, as if he'd been hit with something, and he wasn't fighting as the demons strapped him down tight to the table. Sam was horribly sure there was no way Dean was going to be able to slip out of the thick leather straps or break the heavy buckles.

Alastair didn't have to tell Sam what was happening here. He'd worked it all out for himself - Alastair was going to put on a show for him. He was going to illustrate for Dean's little brother what his 30 years on the rack in Hell had been like, first-hand. What Dean had signed up for in order to save his life. In Sam's head, this is what had happened to Dean _because of him_.

And that was the whole point. Despite what Dean said, Sam knew damn well that he was the reason Dean had gone to Hell. He knew that whatever had happened to his big brother down there was on him, but Dean had never described it. He'd never told Sam a single word about what it had been like, because he understood that he felt like Dean's deal was his fault - and Dean had been determined not to give him anything more to torment himself with. Now, Alastair was about to give Sam all the nightmarish detail he could muster.

Sam's heart was pounding as Alastair walked over to a large stainless steel tray, sitting on top of a couple of bales of hay. The hay, which had looked a healthy pale green when Jess had walked past it by the stables, was now a stale brown.

As Alastair arranged his metallic-sounding instruments on the tray, his back to Sam, one of the demons slapped Dean hard across the cheek. The sound echoed in the big, empty barn, and Dean started to struggle against his bonds as he regained consciousness.

Sam watched as Dean slowly came around, barely noticing the demons tying him securely to one of the barn's wooden support pillars with multicoloured climbing rope. His attention was focused on Dean as he came to and realised he was tied down. Sam saw every muscle in his brother's body tense as Dean tried to break free, then the short, sharp breaths that bordered on hyperventilation when he realised he couldn't get loose.

"Dean! Are you all right?" Sam called, frantically, and Dean suddenly became very still.

"Sammy?" Dean called back, warily - he sounded surprised that his brother was here.

"Yeah, Dean, it's me. Are you okay?" Sam repeated, watching Dean's breathing slow a little. Knowing he wasn't alone apparently made Dean feel a tiny bit better.

"Define 'okay'." Dean replied, trying again to work his hands through the leather restraints, and Sam almost smiled - he was okay enough to make jokes, apparently. "Where the hell are we, Sam? What's going on?" Dean asked, more seriously this time - he'd stopped struggling altogether, having realised he was just too well restrained.

When Sam opened his mouth to reply, Alastair was there to shove a gag into it. Sam wanted to struggle, and he shouted at Alastair to leave him and his brother alone, but Alastair just smiled and tied off the gag behind Sam's head as easily as if the youngest Winchester was a statue. Which he might as well have been - no matter how much he tried, Sam couldn't move an inch until Alastair was done gagging him and the paralysis disappeared. Sam understood then why the demons had tied him to the pillar; Alastair wanted Sam to be _able_ to help Dean, but to know that he _couldn't_.

Dean heard his brother's muffled cries as he struggled briefly against the ropes, but he couldn't understand anything Sam was saying, or see what was going on. "Sam? _Sam?_" Dean shouted as he started struggling again, understanding that his brother was in some kind of trouble. Alastair let Sam keep shouting and Dean keep struggling - both Winchester boys were working themselves into a panic all on their own, and that was fine with him.

Alastair walked slowly over to Dean, and stood close to his right side. Sam saw Dean go very still as he sensed the presence next to him, and searched for any clue to identify it. Sam stopped yelling, and just watched as Alastair leaned down close to his brother's ear. Even blindfolded, Dean was able to sense the movement and tried to get his head as far away as possible from the presence next to him.

Alastair waited a good ten seconds before he said a word, and Dean was unable to do anything but wait. He understood on a very primal level that whatever was standing next to him was _bad news_ - he even had the good sense not to make a smart-ass comment of some kind that would only serve to piss it off. He stayed uncharacteristically still and quiet.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't Dean Winchester." Alastair's nasal voice broke the silence, and he watched with evil satisfaction as Dean's whole body tensed. He knew immediately who was standing next to him, and as much as he wanted to stay cool, Dean couldn't help the film of sweat that broke out across his forehead or the rise in his heart rate. And Alastair noticed them, just as Dean knew he would. He smiled, and stood back up straight.

"I'm so glad to see you again, Dean. We had such fun together in Hell." Alastair pulled Dean's blindfold off, and he immediately scanned the barn. He saw Sam, gagged and tied to the pillar but apparently unhurt, and then his eyes fell on Alastair standing by his stainless steel tray.

Dean recognised that tray. He'd seen it every day for 40 years while he was downstairs in Hell, and even now the sight of it made it hard to breathe.

Sam watched as Alastair selected something sharp from his collection of instruments and went slowly back over to the table. Dean glimpsed the tool in Alastair's hand as he approached, and Sam saw a stray tear run from the corner of Dean's eye as he looked sadly over at his little brother. He knew exactly what was coming and as much as he didn't want Alastair to touch him, Dean wished more than _anything_ that Sam wasn't here to see it. Dean didn't say it out loud, but his eyes got the message across: _I'm sorry you have to see this, Sammy._

Sam hadn't noticed, but there were tears rolling down his cheeks as he looked back at Dean. He held his older brother's gaze as Alastair used the razor-sharp scalpel in his hand to slice open Dean's t-shirt.

"I should probably tell you, Dean, that this really isn't about you." Alastair said conversationally, as he cut open the legs of Dean's faded, torn jeans from waistband to ankle. Dean kept his eyes on Sam, trying to stay calm.

"Well that's just hurtful." Dean wanted to sound unfazed, but the underlying terror shone through. This situation was right up there on Dean's List of Worst Nightmares, and they all knew it.

"Oh, don't worry, I'll enjoy carving into you immensely," Alastair chuckled as he yanked the ruined clothes out from under Dean's body and tossed them onto the floor, "but you see, what I really want is for young Sammy to tell me what Lucifer is up to."

Sam saw confusion clouding Dean's eyes as his older brother looked over at him, and he wanted to scream at Alastair - and Dean - that he had no idea what Lucifer's plans were, that he didn't have anything to tell, but the gag in his mouth made anything he wanted to say utterly incomprehensible. Alastair was well aware of this fact - he wanted some time with Dean before Sam could break and put a stop to it.

Dean stared at Sam, the hurt and confusion showing in his eyes. _He thinks it's possible. He thinks I could be working with Lucifer,_ Sam realised.

The knowledge that his big brother really thought he was capable of that actually physically _hurt_ - for the second time that night, Sam felt his heart break. Dean thought he might be in league with Satan, and Sam couldn't tell him otherwise. Alastair had made sure of that, and the way the demon was smirking at Sam made him think that Alastair knew he had nothing to confess. Sam was sure now that he simply wanted to torture Dean, and his little brother in the bargain, just for the hell of it.

Dean looked away from Sam, eyes focused on the rafters and brimming with tears. Alastair grinned evilly as he touched the cold tip of the scalpel to Dean's skin, a couple of inches below the point of his sternum and a little to the right. The demon didn't want to cut into the connective tissue that formed the midline of Dean's six-pack; he wanted the well-defined muscles that ran along either side. After all, that fibrous connective tissue doesn't contain any nerves, and where's the fun in that?

Alastair watched Dean try to pull back, tensing every muscle and holding his breath, but kept the blade pressed against the unblemished, well-tanned skin as the eldest Winchester's chest contracted in as far as he could make it go. Dean felt the blade break the first few layers of skin, and he understood exactly what Alastair was doing - he held his breath for as long as he could, until his lungs burned and black dots danced in front of his eyes.

Just as Dean thought he might get lucky and pass out, his body betrayed him - it needed oxygen, _now_, and no matter how hard he tried Dean couldn't stop his chest expanding outward, pushing the scalpel blade through his skin and deep into the top of his abdominal muscles. He felt every millimetre as his own body pushed the blade in all the way to the handle, but Dean managed to stay quiet, teeth clenched and eyes screwed shut.

"No! Stop - leave him alone!" Sam screamed, but his protests were muffled by the gag and Alastair paid him no attention at all. Just the sight of bright red blood welling up around the handle of the scalpel made Sam want to cry - he was stunned that Dean hadn't even whimpered.

Alastair dragged the blade out of Dean's flesh slowly, smiling as a thin scarlet rivulet wound its way across his ribcage and dripped slowly onto the straw below. He put the scalpel back to Dean's skin, high up on the left side of his ribcage this time, and slowly cut deep along each ridge of the serratus muscles.

Sam winced as he heard the blade scrape bone each time Alastair dragged it from under Dean's arm, around and across under his pectoral muscle, but Dean didn't make a sound. His eyes were still shut and his teeth were still clenched, but a sheen of sweat now also covered Dean's entire body, mingling with the blood that ran from the wounds on the side of his chest. It looked to Sam like a lion had attacked his brother and dragged its claws across his ribs.

"You're not going to make this easy for me, are you?" Alastair asked, absorbed in watching the mixture of blood and sweat dripping onto the floor. Dean opened his eyes and stared back at the demon defiantly, but Alastair kept right on smiling as he signalled his demon lackeys, waiting somewhere in the wings. They soon appeared in Sam's peripheral vision with a small propane tank and what looked like a huge circular gas burner, bringing a crate of wooden-handled iron tools with them.

"I know, the whole propane thing is just a little bit domestic. If I had my way, we'd all be downstairs in Hell with my lovely furnace, but I have to make do with what I can get my hands on," Alastair lamented, as he took the crate of wrought iron implements and set it next to the hay bales supporting his tray.

Sam could now get a good look at what the crate contained: for the most part, it looked like a collection of fireplace pokers of various shapes and sizes, but some were far too sharp and pointy to ever be mistaken for fireplace tools. Sam got chills as he watched the demons setting up the giant burner on a tripod, with its concentric rings of gas jets and a foot-high blue flame, and imagined those iron tools heated to a cherry red...

"Well," Alastair said, walking around to the other side of the table, "while we wait for the burner, let's make this nice and symmetrical." Without further ado, he set about cutting a matching set of wounds into Dean's right side, pressing harder and marking the bone of Dean's ribs as he sliced.

The sound made Sam's skin crawl, and he resumed his muffled, desperate pleas for Alastair to stop - again, the demon completely ignored him. He was busy making sure that this time, his victim wouldn't stay silent - Dean couldn't stop the low, agonised groan that escaped from the back of his throat with every cut, and it just made Alastair smile wider.

"Now that's more like it!" he chuckled, tousling Dean's hair before he went back to the tray and put the scalpel down. It clinked on the stainless steel, and Sam saw Dean relax a little. He expected his big brother to look over and let him know he was okay, but Dean didn't even try to make eye contact. He just laid still, trying to control his breathing, and stared up at the roof. That on its own made Sam want to cry.

"I'm sure you appreciate that I can't have you bleeding to death there, Dean." Alastair came back over to Dean's left side, with a wooden bowl in his leather-gloved hands. Sam saw Dean wince, as if he knew what was in the bowl. "I see you remember." Alastair smiled as he reached into the bowl and brought out a handful of granular salt.

Sam didn't understand at first. _Why would a demon carry around a bowl of poison?_ he wondered, watching as Dean took a deep breath and steeled himself for whatever was coming. _What the hell is Alastair doing?_

Sam's question was answered shortly thereafter, when Alastair ground the handful of salt deep into the wounds on the left of Dean's chest. Dean bucked and writhed and tried to pull away, groaning through clenched teeth as the salt stung his raw flesh. Sam gasped in shock - he hadn't expected Alastair to do _that_, and it obviously hurt like hell.

"As I'm sure you remember, Dean, salt is an effective way to stop people bleeding out on my table before I'm finished with them. And I don't plan to be finished with you for a long time yet." Alastair informed his victim, smiling the whole time. Dean closed his eyes, biting his bottom lip and breathing heavily - he was well aware that Alastair was going to drag this out as long as possible. He hadn't expected anything less.

While Sam watched the white salt pressed to his brother's ribs slowly turn pink, Alastair leaned down close to Dean's left ear and whispered something. Sam couldn't hear a word he said, but he heard Dean's response.

"Go to hell!" he growled, but Alastair just laughed.

"Have it your way." The demon smiled as he stood up and walked around to the other side of the table, and Sam watched him pick up another handful of salt while Dean deliberately looked away. Alastair pushed the salt deep into Dean's remaining wounds, but he still refused to scream.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

While Sam was living his worst nightmares in the Djinn's wish-verse, things were pretty calm in the warehouse. Owen and Ray had looked on silently as the Djinn touched Sam's forehead for a few seconds, standing back against the wall and just watching.

As soon as the Djinn had touched Sam's skin, he'd fallen into unconsciousness. Within seconds, the Djinn had known everything; it saw Sam's hopes, dreams, desires - and also every fear and nightmare he'd ever had.

There was plenty to work with to accomplish what those two hunters wanted it to do, and probably without resorting to physically torturing Sam. So, it had sown the seeds and stepped back to watch the results. _What a life this boy has led,_ it thought, watching Sam's face light up as he saw Jess.

The minutes it took her to die in the wish-verse were only seconds in the warehouse, and the long hours Alastair took with Dean passed before dawn. The Djinn couldn't escape the images of what was going on in Sam's head, but it looked away when the horror of his nightmare started to show on his face. The pain of seeing his girlfriend dying in front of him again, and then what that demon was doing to his brother, was etched on his features. The Djinn honestly didn't enjoy that - causing pain brought it no joy.

However, the two hunters watching proceedings seemed quite pleased. The Djinn saw their pleasure grow at the same rate as the Sam's pain - while he had tears streaming down his face, they were grinning like madmen. The first time Sam screamed, the older hunter actually laughed and the Djinn found itself wanting to cut the boy loose and let him at the two cruel older men. But it couldn't.

_They have my sister. I have to finish this._

The Djinn sighed, and cringed as Sam screamed again - it had rarely heard anguish like that. As soon as it discovered the kind of relationship the boy had with his brother, the Djinn had known: it might be able to use this bottomless pit of raw emotion to actually break this poor boy. Maybe then the hunters would kill him quickly, instead of dragging it out...

* * *

><p><em>Sorry this chapter took so long to materialise - work got in the way. :( And I spent a lot of time I could have been wri<em>_t__ing actually watching the show ;) The Hellatus marathon is on: all six seasons in four months, right from the pilot... *heaven*_

_The other half of this chapter is coming very shortly :) (it's already partly written, I promise)_  
><em>While I've been writing this, I've referred to it as my 'Limp!Sam'... how odd that the first cut was actually into Dean!<em>

_Anyway - you know the drill: read and review! Tell me how I'm doing! Remember, r__e__views are addictive... please, help me get my fix! ;)_


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Owen and Ray had initially been quite pleased with the Djinn's efforts. They saw the horror in Sam's head play out on his face, and actually rather enjoyed his screams as Jess died right in front of him and Alastair carved the flesh from Dean's bones.

However, by the time dawn broke and tried to chase away the bone-numbing cold of the March night, things had changed. They'd waited hours for Sam to break and tell Alastair whatever he knew - their patience was wearing thin, and they weren't happy with the progress their captive Djinn was making.

Owen and Ray were sitting in camping chairs by a portable propane-fuelled space heater, drinking black coffee from a thermos and watching Sam's suffering as he hung from the ceiling. "Whatever it's doing isn't working." Owen whispered, eyes squinting against the weak morning sun as he turned slightly towards his buddy. Ray sighed - he'd been thinking the same thing for the last couple of hours, and he knew just how to move this along.

Ray left Owen by the heater and went over to the Djinn. It was sitting on a table at the opposite end of the room, back against the wall and knees pulled up to its chest, trying to get as far away from the two hunters as possible. The Djinn looked up as Ray strode towards it, stopping a good three feet from the table. Even with the leverage he had on it, he wasn't going to risk getting any closer.

"You need to step this up. Whatever you're doin', it ain't working." Ray told the Djinn simply but intensely, and it frowned as it looked back at him. It realised exactly what the hunter was saying: _Break this boy soon or we'll kill you._ So, the Djinn kicked things up a notch.

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Sam couldn't see a clock anywhere in the barn, but he knew they'd been there for hours - long enough for him to have screamed and shouted into Alastair's gag so much he'd all but lost his voice. It was probably closer to a couple of days, but Sam didn't want to consider the fact that Alastair might have had Dean on his table for so long, and he put that thought out of his mind.

Honestly, he'd expected Alastair to have killed his big brother by now. The demon had managed to keep him alive, but Sam didn't understand how - either the blood loss from his wounds or an infection in any of the dozens of burns, some of which Sam knew went to the bone, should have been enough to kill him on their own.

He didn't look _good_, by any stretch of the imagination, but Dean was still alert and coherent. Although he didn't say a word to his little brother, or even make eye contact, Sam saw his eyes were open and focused and his responses to Alastair's whispers were quintessential Dean. Some of the things he suggested Alastair should do with his words even made Sam smile.

A lot of the time, though - especially after Alastair had started using the hot wrought iron instruments - Sam wished his brother wasn't so lucid. He knew he was never going to be able to forget the way Dean screamed when, in a fit of frustration, Alastair heated one of his iron pokers until it glowed bright yellow then burned right through the muscle high on Dean's left forearm and blackened the bone underneath. The way the veins stood out on Dean's neck as he screamed and his whole body went taut, Sam had actually seriously wondered if he'd have a heart attack or a stroke or something.

Every so often, Alastair would leave Dean in peace for a few minutes and come over to Sam. He'd untie the gag, maybe give Sam a glass of water, and ask him what Lucifer's plan was. Every time, Sam would tell him he didn't know and plead with him to let his brother go, then Alastair would coolly replace the gag and go back over to Dean.

Each time, Sam saw him whisper the same thing in Dean's ear, so softly that Sam could never hear it. He heard Dean's responses, though: he always told the demon to shove it, with various colourful suggestions as to where and how. Alastair wasn't particularly upset by this - it meant he had no reason to let Dean off the table.

But just after dawn broke in the warehouse and Ray threatened the Djinn, something different happened. Alastair asked Sam yet again what Lucifer's plan was, and got the same answer as every other time. So, he replaced Sam's gag and the youngest Winchester watched as he once again went over to Dean and whispered in his ear.

"You can make it stop, Dean." Alastair offered, ever so quietly. Sam still couldn't hear the words but he'd watched Alastair's lips and worked out what the demon was saying, although he had no clue what it meant. Every time Alastair whispered in Dean's ear, Sam wondered: w_hat could Dean possibly give Alastair to make him stop this?_

For the first time, Dean didn't answer right away. Confused, Sam's brow creased as he watched his big brother biting his bottom lip with bloodied teeth as he thought - he obviously knew _exactly_ what Alastair's offer meant, and whatever it was, he was considering it.

Finally, Dean looked over at his little brother with sunken, bloodshot eyes, then back at the demon, apparently having made up his mind. _That's the first time he's looked at me since Alastair said I was working with Lucifer,_ Sam thought sorrowfully, watching Dean take as deep a breath as his broken body would allow. Sam could swear he heard the ends of Dean's broken ribs grating.

"Okay." Dean whispered, through cracked and bleeding lips.

Sam watched in amazement as the leather restraints fell away, and the wounds and burns that covered his body faded before his eyes as Dean tentatively climbed off the crucifix table and gingerly put his body weight onto the newly-healed soles of his bare feet. When he then started to put on the jeans and t-shirt Alastair gave him, Sam actually started to calm down a little.

_Dean's okay - Alastair is letting him go. This is good._ He ignored the little voice in the back of his mind that told him this was just too easy, and there was no way Alastair would just _let_ Dean go...

As Alastair led Dean away from the table and over to his tray of instruments, talking quietly, Sam felt two pairs of strong hands grasp his arms. He started to struggle, but the hands were like vices and the next thing he knew the full-body paralysis was back. Alastair's two anonymous demons loosened the ropes and manhandled him over to the crucifix table, and while they took off his gag and started strapping him down, Sam kept his eyes on Alastair and Dean and tried really hard not to notice that the leather restraints were still slick with Dean's blood.

He watched as the demon smiled and slapped Dean on the back, before giving Sam a wink and walking down to the back of the barn and out of sight. Dean stood at the stainless steel tray a little longer, head down, then slowly picked up an evil-looking black-handled Bowie knife.

As the demons fastened the last strap across his chest, Sam's paralysis evaporated and he immediately started to struggle against his bonds. "Dean! Help me!" he called desperately, and his brother turned and began to walk towards him, eyes downcast as he wiped his own blood off the 8-inch blade with the hem of his t-shirt.

"Dean! What are you _waiting_ for?" Something was wrong here, but Sam couldn't work out what it was until Dean got closer: where Dean's warm, familiar hazel eyes should have been, there were two black bottomless pits. The eyes of a demon.

_No. Dean has an anti-possession tattoo - he _can't _be possessed!_ Sam thought frantically, trying to wrap his mind around what the hell was going on here.

Suddenly, in a moment of terrible clarity, he understood. Dean wasn't possessed. This was the Dean that Alastair had made in Hell - the broken one that got down off the rack and put other souls on it.

Sam's blood ran cold as he realised what was happening. Alastair had let Dean off the rack because he'd promised to put Sam on it. Dean was going to use that knife on his baby brother.

While he didn't blame his brother for doing what he had to do to get off Alastair's rack, ever since Dean had told him about the things he'd done in Hell, one thought had stuck in Sam's mind. He'd come to the conclusion that he was very glad he'd never be under Dean's knife, because he had a feeling that Dean would be really good with it - _scary_ good - and Sam had absolutely no desire to find out what that was like.

As the elder Winchester stood over the younger with the knife in his hand, Sam stopped struggling and looked up at Dean with an expression of absolute horror on his face. "Dean - no. Please!" he pleaded, heart pounding as he tried to reach whatever was left of his brother behind those black eyes. Dean's sable eyes were expressionless as he looked back down at Sam, turning the knife absently in his hand.

"Just tell me, Sam. Just tell me what Lucifer's plans are so I don't have to hurt you." Dean blinked away his black eyes as he looked down at his little brother, staring back up at him on the verge of tears. Dean's voice was soft and compelling, and if Sam had known anything worth confessing he would have spilled every word right there.

"I'm not working with Lucifer, Dean! I don't _have_ anything to _tell_ you!" Sam repeated, the stress showing in his voice now. His eyes followed the Bowie knife as Dean sliced the front of his shirt open, evidently not believing what he was hearing.

"I can't take your word for that, and you know it." Dean replied, avoiding eye contact as he cut Sam's sleeves.

As he listened in disbelief to the words coming out of his brother's mouth, Sam was struck with an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. He was so busy thinking about where he'd heard that line before - _I can't take your word for that, and you know it _- that he almost didn't notice as Dean pulled the ruined shirt out from under him.

"Last chance, Sam. I don't wanna hurt you, so tell me what Lucifer has planned. Please." Dean asked one last time, knife in his right hand as he looked down at Sam. He _looked_ like he didn't want to do it; he had all the right facial expressions and he was saying all the right things, but his eyes looked dead. They were missing the life he was used to seeing in Dean.

"Dean, I can't tell you what Lucifer has planned _because I don't know_!" Sam shouted, frustration and desperation getting the better of him, but Dean just sighed. He obviously didn't believe a word Sam was telling him, because he held the tip of the knife to his little brother's chest, at the top of the left pectoral muscle near the front of his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Sam." he replied, sadly, and pushed down.

Sam watched out of the corner of his eye as the blade touched his skin. He saw it sink into his flesh like it was warm butter, slowly and smoothly down to the bone of his ribcage. He watched as the knife tracked across his chest, diagonally down towards the tip of his sternum, the blade making a clicking sound as it skipped over his ribs. The edges of the wound opened up like Dean was undoing a zipper, revealing the bright red muscle beneath.

The shock of his big brother actually deliberately slicing him open like that dulled the pain at first. But when Sam's brain caught up and registered that there was a nine-inch wound pouring blood down the left side of his chest, the pain hit him like a freight train and it was all he could do not to scream at the top of his lungs.

"So that's what those muscles look like on the inside." Dean apparently wasn't at all upset by the sight in front of him - his little brother trying to control his breathing, eyes squeezed shut and teeth clenched, much like Dean had done when he was the one on the table.

"Remember, Sam, you can stop this anytime you want," Dean reminded him, tracing the definition in Sam's abs with the tip of the knife as he spoke. The keen blade scratched the skin, but didn't break it.

"I don't... know anything... Dean." Sam repeated, softly, between breaths. The wound on his chest burned every time he inhaled, just as Dean intended - Sam's body was doing Dean's job for him, keeping him in constant pain.

Dean's response was to cut along the bottom of Sam's right pec, from the side of his ribcage across to his sternum. Sam felt every millimetre this time, but he only allowed himself to groan as the blade sliced through muscle and nerve fibres. "Don't fight it, Sam. Tensing up only makes it worse - believe me." Dean advised, and Sam looked up at him in astonishment.

"Alastair wasn't kidding when he said he broke you. There's something seriously wrong in your head, Dean!" Sam was surprised at how detached his brother was. _What's broken inside him that he can do this without batting an eye?_

"Maybe so. But that's not what you need to be thinking about, Sam." Dean said, as he heated the knife in Alastair's gas ring. Sam's eyes fixed on the rosy glow of the blade as Dean held it over his navel, and he could feel the heat as the tip came within millimetres of his skin. Like Dean had done, he altered his breathing to try and avoid touching the metal.

"Tell me what Lucifer is planning, Sam. Tell me what you know and I'll let you go." Dean repeated, and Sam smiled mirthlessly. He knew there was nothing he could say that would stop what Dean was doing, and it was obvious how this story was going to end.

"Do what you have to do to be sure, Dean, but I don't know anything," Sam told him, and he sighed.

"Don't worry, I will." he replied, and cut into Sam's washboard abs with the hot knife, just above his right hip.

The heat of the blade cauterised the blood vessels as the knife bit, and Dean was careful not to cut more than halfway through the thick muscle as he opened up an angry red wound all the way across Sam's abdomen, from the point of the right hip to the left. Sam couldn't help it now - before he knew it, he was screaming.

After that, Dean made sure he hardly stopped.

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"I don't think this Djinn can get the job done." Owen told Ray, quietly, looking over at their captive Winchester.

It was now almost midday, and the sun streaming in through the windows highlighted the tears streaming down Sam's pale cheeks. "There's obviously some awful stuff going on in that boy's head, but it just ain't working. I reckon it's time we get our hands dirty." he added, and Ray nodded his agreement. Owen smiled; he'd been looking forward to this.

Ray picked up his silver, black-handled Bowie knife, dipped it into a jar of lamb's blood, and walked across the room towards the Djinn. It instinctively stepped back, eyes fixed on the knife, but found its back hard up against the wall. The look on its face said it knew exactly what Ray was planning to do.

"Last week, when we brought you that demon hellspawn and told you to look through its mind, you said you saw what Alastair did to Dean Winchester in Hell." Ray started, calmly enough, keeping his eyes on the creature in front of him as the knife in his hand slowly dripped blood onto the floor. "How can it be that those things're happening in this boy's mind and he hasn't told you jack since you started?" he went on, the anger starting to show in his voice.

"I used the things I saw in that demon's head - I made Alastair repeat what he did to Dean Winchester, and Dean is doing those kinds of things to his brother right now, but he's just not breaking!" The Djinn didn't want to admit it, looking over Ray's shoulder at Sam hanging from the ceiling, but that boy was stronger than it had thought.

"Are you saying you _can't _break him?" Ray asked, staring intently at the Djinn. It recognised that this was a life-and-death question and paused before it answered, wondering if there was any possible way it could phrase its response that _wouldn't_ make Ray kill it immediately.

"It might take weeks. _If _he knows anything in the first place - I can only see his desires and nightmares, so..." it trailed off, and Ray rubbed his temple wearily as he thought that over.

"All right." he sighed, before he suddenly and viciously plunged the bloodied 8-inch blade into the Djinn's chest, all the way to the hilt.

Eyes wide with surprise, the Djinn grasped at the knife sticking out of its chest as it slid slowly down the wall. Ray pulled a pair of leather gloves from his pocket and calmly put them on as he watched the Djinn collapse in a heap on the concrete floor, gasping for breath. Its eyes flashed purple as it died, and Ray grabbed the body by the wrist and started to drag it out into the warehouse. Even dead, he wasn't going to risk touching it with bare hands.

"What are you going to do with its sister?" Owen asked, as he held the door open so Ray could get the Djinn through it.

"Never had this thing's sister, Owen. Killed it weeks ago." Ray smiled as Owen chuckled, dragging the body around the corner and leaving it by the wall. The Djinn's covering of intricate tattoos was slowly fading - as Ray went back inside and Owen shut the door behind him, the crumpled body lying discarded in the cold warehouse already almost looked human.

With the Djinn dead, Sam had started to wake up even as Ray was still dragging the body outside. He didn't come to right away, though; it took a few minutes until he could even open his eyes, and then he was only semi-conscious. It was almost half an hour before all the Djinn's poison worked its way out of his system - to make the horror that had transpired in his mind seem real, the Djinn had to dose him pretty heavily. It had quickly discovered that it was much harder to create a realistic hell than a typical white-picket-fence paradise.

Fortunately, though, Sam didn't remember any of the horrors that had taken place in his mind. In its last seconds of life, to spite Owen and Ray, the Djinn had done its best to make him forget what it had inflicted on him over the last ten hours. It didn't want this poor kid to spend his last hours replaying that nightmare over and over - the Djinn was quite sure the hunters would give him all the nightmares he could handle all on their own.

Once Sam was completely awake, he immediately wished he wasn't. His shoulders ached, his hands were almost totally numb - a combination of poor circulation and the cold March air - he was _starving_, and he had a splitting headache. It took him a minute to remember why he was hanging from the roof by his wrists in an empty warehouse, but when he saw Owen walking towards him it all came flooding back.

_Oh God, why can't this have all been a bad dream?_

"Rise and shine." Owen smiled and slapped Sam hard across his left cheek, bringing fresh waves of pain from his fractured cheekbone. Sam didn't know it, but most of the left side of his face was swollen and he had the beginnings of a spectacular black eye.

"You don't look so good. Bad night?" Owen smirked, and Sam glared silently back at him. There was a nagging thought in the back of his mind that the hunter didn't just mean the fact they'd kidnapped him and hung him from the ceiling, but Sam didn't want to imagine what else he might be talking about.

"Don't worry, Sammy, we've got plenty more in store for you." Owen grinned as Ray came over and stood next to his buddy. He just looked at Sam, taking in his swollen face. Sam couldn't see it, but trails of dried blood that ran down his face and neck had been partially washed away by tear tracks, his eyes were puffy and bloodshot and the left one was swollen half-shut. They'd hardly touched him, and he already felt like he'd been hit by a truck.

"All right, boy, this is how it's gonna go. You're going to tell us what you know about Lucifer or we're going to _make_ you tell us," Ray informed Sam, matter-of-factly.

"I don't know anything _about_ Lucifer, but I know that doesn't matter to you. So just get on with it, okay?" The words were out of Sam's mouth before he knew he was speaking. These guys were going to hurt him in whatever ways their twisted minds could come up with, regardless of what Sam did or didn't tell them. He understood that very clearly, and he didn't feel up to sugarcoating it.

"True, but if you tell us what you know we might kill you faster." Owen smiled, and kicked Sam hard in the ribs. The blow knocked the air out of his lungs, and he found himself once again gasping for breath. Ray joined in, punching Sam repeatedly in the ribs and stomach with a set of brass knuckles.

Owen and Ray took turns using Sam as a punching bag, bruising almost every square inch of his stomach, chest and back, and cracking a few ribs for good measure. They took their time, and when they were done it hurt Sam just to breathe.

"Remember, you can stop this anytime you want," Owen reminded the younger Winchester, but Sam stayed silent - he figured his best bet was to say nothing at all.

As Ray went over to the table by the wall to select his first 'toy', Owen used a penknife from his pocket to cut the shirt off Sam's body, provoking an incredibly strong sense of déjà vu. _Why does it feel like someone's done that to me b__e__fore?_ he wondered, as Owen tore away the tattered remains of his cotton t-shirt.

Sam sure as hell didn't remember ever being in a situation where someone had cut the clothes from his body - that seemed more like something that Dean might be into - but there was a faint memory nagging at him in the back of his mind, and he just couldn't grasp it...

Sam's train of thought was interrupted as Ray returned with an evil little smile on his face, holding a small coil of something that looked like rope. When he got closer and Sam could see what he was carrying, a shiver ran down his spine that had nothing to do with the chilly autumn air. Ray wasn't holding a coil of rope - it was a thin black whip, made of plaited leather.

Ray grinned as Sam's eyes widened ever-so-slightly, despite his efforts to remain impassive. "Made this myself a couple 'a years back, from the skin of a werewolf." Ray unravelled the whip, and Sam could see small flecks of dried blood along its four-foot length. His heart rate rose as Ray walked around behind him, and Owen took a few steps back - he evidently didn't want to be anywhere near the whip when Ray was swinging it.

Sam heard Ray stop a few feet behind him, and he knew exactly what was coming next. He closed his eyes and tried not to tense up - he remembered hearing somewhere that tensing up made it more painful. But, when Ray launched the whip at Sam's bare back, he decided it didn't matter whether he tensed up or not: he couldn't believe there was any way that could hurt _more_.

Sam heard the _whoosh_ of the whip cutting through the air, then the _crack_ as it made contact and broke through his skin, drawing a long red line across the back of his shoulders. By some miracle he managed not to scream - mostly because the shock of the thin braid of leather took his breath away.

Sam had been hit, shot, stabbed and scorched quite a lot over the years, but the sting of Ray's whip was a fresh kind of agony and he'd never felt anything quite like it before. The fact that it caused so much pain, but with relatively little damage, was exactly why Ray liked it so much.

Each stroke of the whip caused such little injury that Ray was able to take his time and carve out an intricate lattice over much of Sam's back, making the youngest Winchester cry out in pain with almost every blow. He broke the skin consistently, slicing partway into the huge muscles in Sam's back but not cutting so deep he hit bone and caused uncontrolled bleeding. By the time Ray was finished, there was a red curtain of blood running from the welts on Sam's back and soaking into the waistband of his jeans, but there was very little actual damage done.

Owen and Ray did their best to remedy that, though - they spent the next nine hours tearing and slicing and carving at Sam in progressively evil ways, trying everything they could think of to wring out information he didn't have to give.

When the sun finally set outside and Sam's little corner of Hell started getting dark and cold again, any hope he still had of being rescued was fading with the light. Right now, he just wanted it to be over - the prospect that this could all be finished soon was now more inviting than it was terrifying.

Owen and Ray stood in the shadows a short distance from Sam, who was slumped over in a chair with his chin resting on his bare chest. This was the closest thing he'd had to rest since Owen and Ray had cut him down from the ceiling a few hours back and tied him to the metal chair, when they'd wanted easier access to his fingers and hands. But even now, beaten and bloodied as he was, Sam was still lucid enough to take in his captors' hushed conversation.

"I'm just gonna say it. Either this kid is unbreakable, or he doesn't know anything," Owen told Ray, and Sam heard the Southerner sigh.

"It don't matter, either way. We need to be out of town _tonight_, before someone comes looking for this boy," he replied, matter-of-factly - like he was discussing the weather, not how to get away with murder.

"Later, when the roads are clear?" Owen suggested, and Sam understood exactly what they meant. _Don't want to be disposing of a body during peak hour. Best to wait till everyone's home for the night._ He'd had the same discussion with Dean on occasion, although never about a human being.

_I must only have a couple of hours now. Guess Dean's not coming after all,_ Sam thought despondently, tuning out the rest of Owen and Ray's conversation; he didn't want to hear any more. He hadn't thought much about Dean over the last few hours, but the notion that he probably wouldn't see him again hurt more than anything those two had done to him all day. Sam was just starting to wonder whether he'd wind up in Heaven or Hell when a noise jolted him out of his reverie.

Owen had disconnected the propane tank from the heater and was rolling it over to Sam, while Ray brought over a small gas burner. "Gonna set up a heater for me?" Sam's voice was scratchy and his throat hurt from all the screaming and yelling he'd done over the last nine hours, but the Winchester in him couldn't resist the smart-ass comment.

"Don't worry, Sam, we're going to warm you right up." Owen smiled as he connected the gas burner and lit the flame, while Ray brought over a collection of metal instruments that reminded Sam of fireplace pokers. He had an awful feeling he knew what was coming next.

As Ray heated up one of the smaller iron rods, he watched Sam watch the metal turn a cherry red. "I don't know whether you'll be happy to hear this or not, but Owen and me are pretty sure you don't know anything about Lucifer's plans. Apparently, demons lie." Ray didn't seem particularly upset about it, though.

"Who knew?" Sam's voice was a whisper, but it was dripping with sarcasm. _I could have told you that._

Ray's response was to press the red-hot tip of the iron rod unmercifully into a fresh cut high on Sam's thigh, drawing a cry of pain. "Don't need y'all to talk now, Sam. We've got a couple of hours to kill until it's safe for us to get outta here - from here on in, it's just gravy. Punishment for your sins, you might say." Ray put the end of the poker back in the fire.

Sam glared at him as he tried to take deep breaths, not these short, shallow gasps that his traitorous body was sucking in. The wound in his leg was still burning as Ray pushed the freshly-heated tip of the poker into a shallow stab wound further down Sam's quadriceps, and was rewarded with another scream.

For the next couple of hours, Owen and Ray took turns inflicting on Sam whatever torture they could devise. They didn't have to worry about keeping him alive anymore, and any mercy they might have shown earlier in the day was gone. By ten o'clock, the combination of constant pain and mounting blood loss meant Sam was only semi-conscious; he wasn't paying attention to anything his captors were saying, or making any more patented Winchester smart-ass comments. The only noises he made now were cries of pain - like when Owen used a white-hot iron rod to burn through the serratus muscle on Sam's left side, all the way down to the ribs beneath.

"Goddamn it, Owen, the kid is giving me a headache!" Ray shouted from across the room, where he was sitting at a table planning their escape route. He was trying to concentrate, and apparently found Sam's tortured screams distracting.

"All right, all right; don't get your knickers in a knot!" Owen shot back, then picked up the remains of Sam's shirt and pushed it roughly into his mouth before he used the hot metal to sear deep into his left triceps muscle, just above the elbow. Sam screamed again, the gag not doing much to suppress the cry of pain.

Owen traced the ridges of Sam's ribs with the hot metal, getting another muffled cry whenever he lingered in one spot and started burning through the bruised skin. _At this rate we might not _need_ to shoot the kid,_ Owen thought, looking at the myriad of red - and sometimes blackened - wounds covering Sam's body.

They stood out starkly against the unhealthy pallor of his skin, and Owen got the distinct impression Sam might expire any minute now. The pulse in his neck - which had been strong all day, no matter what they'd done to him - was now almost invisible under the bloody skin, and his breathing was shallower and less regular. The kid couldn't even hold his head up anymore.

_If he hadn't sprung Lucifer from his cage, I might even feel sorry for him._

Owen _didn't_ feel sorry for Sam, though; he wasn't about to waste his pity on the guy that set the Devil free and started the Apocalypse. Instead, he left Sam trembling and gasping for breath and went to reheat the iron rod.

* * *

><p><em>This chapter drove me mad for two weeks. I know EXACTLY what comes after this, but I wasn't so clear on how I was going to get there... I'm still not sure how happy I am with this chapter - it's not my favourite, by a long shot - but it turns out it's hard to strike a balance between adequately describing the scene and leaving enough to the imagin<em>_a__tion._

_So now it's time to tell me what you thought :) As usual, I don't mind whether you send me an essay or a couple of lines: just send something!_  
><em>Hugs and cookies all round for those of you that have taken the time to give me your thoughts! (Especially spnrules1, EvilSquirre1, mmmmmriley, and also mo<em>_n__keymuse :D)__  
>And if you liked it, don't forget to hit one of the 'share' buttons at the top of the page and tell everyone else! ;)<em>

_I don't think Ch 7 will take too long to materialise, but I warn you, I'll lose a week when I head up to Sydney for Supanova - where I'll find James Marsters, Sean Maher, Amy Acker and Corin Nemec (among others). Worth it, don't you think? ;)_


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

_Dean was about to continue his search when a sound stopped him dead - a cry of pain like the ones he used to hear in Alastair's little corner of Hell._

_Dean's breath caught in his throat as another cry reached his ears - muffled this time, like the person had been gagged. It was too late now, though; Dean would know that voice anywhere._

_That was Sam._

* * *

><p>Dean ran to the source of the sound: a door in an internal wall, left ajar, that looked like it led to a file room. His heart was pounding so hard in his chest he thought those hunters must be able to hear it, and he made himself take a deep breath before he looked through the crack in the door.<p>

His eyes went wide as he took in the scene. He only dared look for a couple of seconds - another scream rang out as Dean turned away and leaned back against the cinderblock wall, eyes screwed shut and a fist pressed hard against his lips.

Suddenly, everything was crystal clear: there was only one thought in Dean's mind now. _Have to get those evil ba__s__tards away from Sammy_.

He opened his eyes and let out the breath he'd been holding, blinking away the tears that stung the back of his eyes. _Not now. Have to get Sam back first._

Dean's eyes roved over the warehouse, looking for anything he could use to draw the hunters out of that room. He heard Sam scream again, and fought the urge to kick the door down and go in guns blazing - that would probably result in one of them killing Sam on the spot, and Dean couldn't risk that. It took every shred of self-control he possessed after what he'd just seen, but he took a couple of deep breaths and forced himself to focus. _A distraction. That's how you make them stop. Give them something else to think about._

As he struggled to block out his baby brother's cries, Dean's eyes fell on Owen's red pickup and he had an idea.

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As Owen stepped back towards Sam, freshly-heated iron rod in his hand, there was a noise from the other side of the door. It sounded like something moving around among the junk in the back of Owen's pickup - both Owen and Ray immediately looked up at the door, waiting to see if the sound was repeated. Sam, still slumped over in his chair, barely even registered that something was going on.

"Go check that out." Ray told Owen, looking back down at his map.

"Why me? It's probably just a cat or something." Owen raised his eyebrows - he wasn't amused at being ordered around like hired help.

"The kid ain't going anywhere, and it's your truck. If you hadn't started backtalking, you coulda done it already." Ray replied evenly, without looking up. Owen glared at him for a second before he let the iron rod clatter to the floor, and picked up his pistol from the 'toy' table as he stalked out of the room. As the door swung shut behind him, Ray got up from the table and went over to their captive.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

After Dean had thrown a handy chunk of cinderblock into the random debris in the tray of the red pickup, he crouched down beside the right front wheel and waited. It didn't take long - within 30 seconds, one of the hunters came cautiously out of the file room, pistol in hand.

Dean listened as the man walked down the driver's side of the truck towards the tray, searching for the source of the noise. He snuck a look at the man through the vehicle's window, but didn't recognise him - honestly, he wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. At least one of their friends hadn't turned on them, but if this complete stranger knew Sam sprung Lucifer from his cage, then how many others knew as well...?

Dean snuck around the front of the vehicle and crept up behind his target as the hunter checked out the back of the pickup. In his hands he held a battered three-foot length of 2"x4" pine he'd liberated from the tray prior to setting his trap - before the hunter even knew he was there, Dean cracked him over the head with it and he dropped like a stone onto the cold concrete floor.

Dean had briefly considered shooting him like the animal he obviously was, but that would also probably have gotten Sam killed, so he'd settled for the 2x4. He wasn't entirely unhappy about it, though - turns out there was a certain satisfaction in belting the guy with a blunt object.

Dean took the weapon back for another swing, but the hunter stayed motionless on the floor as a thin trickle of blood ran from the gash on the back of his head. "They're not supposed to go down after the first shot." Dean grumbled, as he took the man's pistol and threw it into the back of the pickup. He'd _really_ wanted to hit this guy again.

Dean pulled a length of rope from the small junkyard in the back of the pickup, and was almost finished tying the hunter's wrists and ankles when he heard another cry of pain from Sam. He knew he should make sure this guy was out of the game for good, though, so despite the fact he'd hit him hard Dean made sure the unconscious hunter was securely bound before he crept over to the door. It was still ajar, held open by the warped doorjamb. Dean took a moment to steel himself then looked in through the crack once again.

He saw Sam was now hanging by his wrists from the ceiling, feet off the floor, and the second hunter was holding something in the flames of a small gas burner. He was monologuing as he waited for whatever he was holding to heat up, but Sam didn't look like he was in aware enough to understand a word of it - the only sign he was even still alive was the slight, irregular movement of his chest as he breathed, and Dean had to look _really_ close to see it.

At first Dean was glad Sam wasn't lucid enough to know what was happening, but the small amount of relief that brought him was short-lived. His brain immediately thought it through, and Dean didn't like the conclusion: Sam must be in really bad shape if he's almost unconscious_._ That thought galvanised him, and he pulled his Colt out of his waistband, took a step back and kicked the door hard right beside the doorknob. It flew open and almost came off its hinges, and Dean had taken three steps inside before Ray worked out what was going on.

"Against the wall, you son of a bitch! _Now!_" Dean demanded, his Colt trained on Ray as he backed right up against the wall, hands held up in surrender. The hunter's revolver was on the table with the 'toys', well out of reach - he'd be dead before he'd taken two steps, and the hot iron rod in his hand was no match for the handgun pointed at him. Although he'd never seen the guy before, Ray knew who exactly who was on the other end of the gun - this had to be Dean Winchester, and Ray knew he wouldn't hesitate to shoot.

The few hunters that knew what he and Owen had planned to do had tried to warn them: kidnapping Sam Winchester was like signing your own death warrant. Dean would never _ever_ stop hunting them, and when he eventually caught up... well, that didn't bear thinking about. Ray had argued - foolishly, he now realised - that Dean couldn't find them if he didn't know who they were; Owen and Ray had planned to be long gone before Dean showed up. Ray certainly hadn't planned to be bailed up against the wall at gunpoint, and now that he was, he had no idea how he was going to get out of it.

While Ray was busy weighing up his options, Dean snuck a look at Sam. He realised now that his peeks through the crack in the door hadn't told the whole story. Not by a long shot.

Dean's little brother was hanging limply from a steel beam in the ceiling, climbing rope wrapped tightly around his bruised wrists. The rope had once been brightly coloured, but blood from Sam's damaged hands had stained it a dark scarlet. His bare chest and stomach were covered in bruises, lacerations and burns, and the two hunters had all but cut his jeans from his body. Dean saw the scattered wounds and scorch marks that littered Sam's legs, and then the toes that had obviously been deliberately shattered.

When he first entered the room, Dean had thought Sam was unconscious - his baby brother wasn't moving, except to take erratic, shallow breaths. When Dean shouted at Ray to get back against the wall, though, Sam slowly brought his head up to see what was going on. As he did, Dean saw the entire left side of Sam's face was bruised and swollen - the kid had obviously been used as a punching bag. His face was covered in cuts and bruises and a few trails of dried blood ran down his face and onto his neck.

Dean bit his bottom lip, taking a slow, deep breath as he looked away from Sam. His eyes fell on Ray, who opened his mouth to speak, but Dean cut him off before he got a word out. "Don't you dare say a word." Dean told him, his voice dripping with venom. His finger gripped the trigger tighter, and Ray's teeth actually clicked together as he quickly shut his mouth.

Ray looked from Dean to his broken and bloodied younger brother hanging from the ceiling, then back to Dean. The expression on the eldest Winchester's face was hard and cold as he stared at Ray, and it reminded him of the time he'd come face-to-face with a wild lion at the zoo. He'd looked directly into its eyes and, even though the cat had been safely locked away behind steel bars, he had understood that if it had the chance the lion would rip his throat out.

At that moment, he was getting much the same vibe from Dean Winchester.

"Did you really think you were going to get away with this? Did you think I wouldn't come for him?" Dean's eyes were blazing with fury, but his voice was low and even.

"We knew you would. We just didn't plan on bein' here when you arrived," Ray replied, and Dean smiled mirthlessly.

"I bet you didn't. I'd love to put an end to you here and now, but there's a few things I need to know first," he told Ray, who raised his eyebrows.

"You think I'm gonna tell you anything, boy?" He almost seemed amused.

Dean lowered his stainless steel Colt slightly, aiming at Ray's kneecaps. The eldest Winchester was definitely _not_ amused. "Yes, Ray, I do." Dean replied, and beads of sweat broke out on Ray's forehead. He wasn't used to being on the receiving end, and he was finding it quite unpleasant.

"I need to know who the hell you and your buddy are, and how you knew Sam busted Lucifer out of his cage. That's all." That was genuinely all Dean wanted to know. Ray thought about it for a few seconds, but didn't reply.

"Okay." Dean could see the hunter wasn't properly motivated just yet. So he cocked the hammer on his Colt, still aimed at Ray's kneecaps, and watched the hunter's eyes widen.

"All right, all right - my name's Ray Beauchamp, and my buddy's Owen Wilkinson. We're hunters." He emphasised the last sentence, like that should make a difference to Dean.

"Well, Ray, I had you two figured for hunters as soon as I heard you'd been sniffing around Blue Springs looking for my brother. Who else but hunters would go looking for Sam Winchester?" Dean replied, evenly. He knew exactly what Ray was trying to do - shooting a couple of random kidnappers was one thing, but ventilating two hunters was something else entirely. He was hoping Dean's principles wouldn't let him do it.

"There's still one question left, Ray." Dean wasn't buying what Ray was selling, though. The fact that hunters had done... _that_... to another hunter made it infinitely worse, in his eyes. "How did you know?" he repeated, but Ray stayed silent. Without so much as another word, Dean squeezed the trigger and shot Ray's left kneecap out.

Ray screamed as his legs gave way beneath him, as they're apt to do when someone shatters your kneecap. "You know, I heard that being shot in the kneecap is one of the most painful things that can happen to a person." Dean observed, calmly - judging by the way Ray was groaning and writhing in pain on the floor, it looked like it was true.

"Apparently, the fact it's a non-lethal injury is the worst part - there's no escape. You're not gonna die from it, so you're stuck squirming on the floor like a fish out of water," he added, as Ray moaned in pain and clutched at his bloody, ruined knee. It obviously hurt like hell, and Dean was quite pleased about that. As far as he was concerned, the bastard deserved that and more for what he'd done to Sam.

"Now, Ray, tell me - how did you know Sam set Lucifer free?" Dean asked again, Colt aimed at Ray's other kneecap. There was a genuine look of terror in Ray's eyes now - he absolutely believed Dean would shoot out his other knee too.

"It was a demon!" Ray gasped, looking up at Dean. "A demon told us!" He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as he pushed himself into a sitting position against the wall, damaged leg stretched out in front of him. A small pool of blood was rapidly collecting on the floor beneath the knee.

Dean didn't have any trouble believing a demon had set these psychopaths on Sam's trail. Probably another Lilith loyalist trying to get revenge - it had happened before. Demons tended to hold a grudge, and they had long memories.

"All right." Dean, having got the answers he was looking for, raised the Colt and aimed it squarely in the centre of Ray's forehead. Ray's eyes widened in horror as he realised what Dean was planning to do.

"Hey - hold up! I didn't think you Winchesters killed humans!" Ray was clutching at straws and he knew it, but he had to try _something_. Dean just narrowed his eyes.

"You may not be supernatural, but that doesn't mean you're not a monster," he replied harshly. "After what you did to my brother, you don't get to leave here. I won't let you go so you can come after him again." Dean's hand was steady as he cocked the hammer, and Ray understood then that there was nothing he could say that would get him out of this room alive. Dean saw it written all over his face, and the fact that this bastard knew exactly what was about to happen and why made him smile.

That cold little smile was the last thing Ray saw as Dean squeezed the trigger and put a round right between the hunter's eyes. The thunder of the shot from the .45 reverberated around the small room, and the wall behind Ray was painted red as he slumped over and fell bonelessly to the floor. Dean turned his back on Ray's body and tucked his Colt into the waistband of his jeans, his thoughts immediately returning to Sam.

He went over to his baby brother and stood in front of him for a few seconds - the damage was even more horrifying close-up. "Christ, what have they been doing to you?" Dean breathed, as Sam opened his swollen eyes a little and struggled to focus. Dean reached up to sweep the hair out of his face, but the younger Winchester whimpered and shied away. Dean frowned as he drew his hand back; he wasn't used to seeing his little brother pull away from him like that.

"It's me, Sam. I'm gonna get you down." Dean assured him gently, and Sam drew a quick breath when he heard his brother's voice saying his name. Dean smiled as he saw the pulse at the base of Sam's neck quicken when he realised Dean was actually, finally, really standing in front of him.

"Look, I'm sorry, Sammy - however I do this, it's probably going to hurt," Dean said apologetically, and used his pocket-knife to slice through the rope binding Sam to the rafters. He collapsed into his older brother's arms with a groan, the dead weight almost knocking Dean off his feet.

Sam yelped as Dean's arms tightened around his torso, trying to stop him falling to the floor, and Dean winced as he actually heard the ends of Sam's broken ribs scraping against each other. "Sorry, Sam." Dean tried to be gentle as he lowered Sam onto the floor, avoiding the angry red wounds that criss-crossed his back. He laid Sam on his side, then shrugged out of his jacket and put it under his little brother's head as a pillow.

"I'm gonna find the keys for these cuffs, Sam - I'll be right back." Dean left his brother on the floor and scanned the room for any sign of the handcuff keys. He searched the 'toy' table, trying not to think too much about the objects resting on it - some of them were still stained with Sam's blood. Dean felt his stomach churn as, despite his best efforts to stop it, his mind cooked up all sorts of horribly vivid images of what Sam's last 24 hours had been like.

Dean soon realised the keys weren't on the table, and looked around the room for another place to search - then his eyes fell on Ray, laying dead on the floor in a pool of his own blood. "I bet you kept 'em on you." Dean said to no-one in particular as he knelt beside the body, his jeans soaking in the sticky, lukewarm pool. He checked the hunter's pockets, and soon found what he was looking for in the left hip pocket of Ray's jeans: two small silver keys on a wrought iron keyring.

Dean went straight back to Sam, who hadn't moved an inch. He knelt by his little brother's side, watching his face as he carefully unwound the bloodied rope from his wrists - Sam wasn't fully conscious, and he was struggling to focus on Dean as he tried the first key in the cuffs. He yelped and pulled his hands back when the movement irritated the bloody wounds that encircled both his wrists, and Dean let him. He wasn't about to make Sam do anything he didn't want to do - not today.

While Dean was kneeling next to his brother and thinking about what to do next, Owen snuck up from behind and hit him over the back of the head with the same section of 2x4 Dean had used on him only minutes earlier.

The blow sent Dean sprawling onto the floor, and his Colt fell from his waistband - before he could gather it up, Owen dived on him to continue the assault. Dean did his best to protect his head from the hail of fists coming at him, but through his defences he saw the hunter reach for the small automatic pistol tucked into the front of his jeans. There was no way Dean could defend against that, so he went on the attack instead.

He punched Owen in the jaw as hard as he could manage from his position on the floor, and dazed the hunter enough that he was able to push him off and knock the gun out of his hands. As it skittered away across the concrete, Dean started to pull himself to his feet and reached for his Colt. He apparently hadn't dazed Owen quite enough though, because he lashed out with a kick that glanced off Dean's temple and put him right back down on the floor.

As he lay on his back seeing stars, Dean couldn't understand how this had gone so pear-shaped. After all, he'd hit this guy with a 2x4, then bound his wrists and ankles just to be sure - there was _no way_ he'd slipped those knots. _And where the hell did he get that gun from?_ Dean didn't have time to dwell on it though; getting hit in the head and tied up had pissed the guy off, and he was ready to start Round Two.

Owen knelt over Dean's hips and was about to start whaling on him when Dean heard Sam groan. The sound brought everything Owen and Ray had done flooding back, and with a cry of rage he shoved Owen off him and reversed their positions. He was now kneeling over the older hunter, and it was his turn to do the punching.

"I don't know how you got out of those ropes, but you shouldn't've come back in here." Dean punctuated that sentence with full-blooded blows to Owen's face and head, overwhelming him and tearing the skin off Dean's knuckles.

As he tried to shield his face with his left arm, Owen's right hand searched for the 2x4 lying just out of reach, but Dean saw the movement out of the corner of his eye - he reached out and picked up the length of wood, then hurled it across the room. Owen's response was to hit Dean hard in the midsection; with his last weapon now out of reach, he was getting desperate. He almost managed to throw Dean off him, and at that point he realised he couldn't risk Owen winning the fight or making an escape: either way, he was going to go after Sam.

That was the thought at the front of Dean's mind when he grasped Owen's head between his hands and twisted viciously with all his strength. He heard the _crunch_ of bone breaking, and Owen immediately went limp under him, his neck broken.

"I can't let you leave - you'd just come after my brother again." Dean told his second dead body of the night, slowly hauling himself to his feet. That fact was what had allowed him to take two lives in the last five minutes. Later, he might agonise over it - now, though, he turned his back on Owen's corpse and went back over to Sam.

As he knelt down and gently unlocked the cuffs, Sam opened his eyes as much as he could and looked up at his brother. "De..." he whispered through cracked and bleeding lips, not quite able to finish his big brother's name.

"That's right, Sammy. I'm gonna get you out of here," Dean assured him as he released the last bracelet, then threw the cuffs across the room.

Now that Sam was free and Dean had dealt with the kidnappers, he realised he hadn't really thought about how he was going to get out of here. He couldn't carry Sam all the way out to the Impala - Dean had no desire to cause him any more pain - and that really only left one option. The Impala was going to have to come to Sam.

"I've gotta go and get the car, Sam. I'm going to leave you here for a minute, okay?" Dean didn't want to leave Sam alone, but he had no choice. It was the only way they were going to get out of this Godforsaken place.

Sam reached out and wrapped his big hand around Dean's wrist, his gesture saying what he couldn't: _don't leave me here._ Dean sighed and bit his bottom lip - it almost broke his heart. "I have to get the car, Sammy. I'll be back in a minute, and there's no-one left to hurt you. It's okay." he gently freed his wrist from Sam's weak grip as he spoke, and Sam let him - he understood what his big brother was saying, and he trusted him. Dean got up and took one last look down at Sam, eyes closed and barely breathing, then took off at a run to fetch the Impala.

After he hit the button to raise the roller door and waited for it to open far enough for him to get under it, Dean wondered for a second if his little brother would still be breathing when he got back. Now that he knew Sam was still alive, the thought that he could still lose him after everything he'd done to get this far...

_No,_ Dean told himself as he ducked under the appallingly slow-moving door, _no. You're not going to lose him. You're not going to come all this way_

(and kill two people)

_just to have him die now. You're going to get the Impala, get Sam in it, and get the hell out of here._

It was at that point Dean realised there was something of a flaw in his grand plan. He was running across the deserted carpark to get the Impala, but he had no clue where he was going to go once he had Sam in it.

_Cas can't pop in and lay some healing hands on, and you can't take him to a random motel and patch him up yourself, genius. He's probably got internal injuries you haven't even thought of yet - he might be bleeding to death right now. You're gonna have to find some help._

That annoyingly rational little voice just wouldn't shut up, but Dean knew it was right. He could probably clean up the shallow burns and stitch the cuts, but what about the broken bones? Internal bleeding? Dean winced as he remembered the burns that went all the way to the bone... he sure as hell couldn't get those clean. Not without torturing Sam further.

As Dean skidded to a stop at the driver's side door and yanked it open, he wondered if he should just take Sam to a hospital. They'd ask a helluva lot of questions about what had happened - it wasn't every day they came across someone who'd been tortured for hours on end - but for once in his life, Dean didn't care. There was no point staying off the radar if it cost Sam his life.

Dean thought it over some more as he pealed away, the Impala almost grounding out on the entrance to the carpark but still not slowing down until he screeched to a stop next to Owen's pickup. It was only when he was hurriedly spreading a blanket out on the back seat that a solution occurred to him, and he wanted to kick himself for not thinking of it sooner.

Almost a year ago, after Cas had brought him back but before Sam had set Lucifer free and everything had gone to hell in a handbasket, Sam and Dean had hunted a vengeful spirit that was haunting a doctor. The spirit had been a patient of his when she was alive, and (wrongly) believed the doctor had screwed up and killed her. She'd gone to the ER with a migraine, and she thought the doctor had given her a fatal drug overdose - it was a brain aneurysm that had done her in, actually, but she didn't know that and she made the doctor's life a living hell for weeks before the Winchester boys salted and burned her bones. That hadn't been a pleasant experience; there was still quite a lot of flesh clinging to those bones when Dean had cracked open the casket, and he'd had to burn his clothes to get rid of the smell.

When they'd gone to tell the doctor the spirit was gone and the ordeal was over, he'd made them promise that if _he_ could ever do anything to help _them_, that they'd call. Now, as soon as Dean had gotten Sam into the car, that's exactly what he planned to do. This guy was an ER doctor, and he only lived about 50 miles down the highway. A relatively quick trip in the middle of the night and exactly what Dean needed: professional help, with no questions asked.

Now that he had a plan, Dean felt a little better as he ran back to Sam - he was laying stock-still on the floor exactly where Dean had left him, and still breathing. "Okay, Sammy, we're gonna get you into the car." he knelt beside Sam, wondering exactly how he was going to do that. There was no way Sam was going to be able to walk, even if Dean could get him to his feet - his broken toes would probably see to that all on their own. So, Dean pulled Sam gently into a sitting position, then set himself as best he could and literally gathered up his giant of a little brother into his arms.

He stood up with some difficulty, quads straining with the weight. _Why the hell did Sam have to go and get so Goddamn Hulk-like?_ Dean silently cursed his brother's fitness obsession as he straightened up, and tried not to grip Sam too tight as he carried him the 30 yards out to the running Impala. He set him down carefully on the blanket in the back seat, once again on his side, facing the front. Sam visibly relaxed when he realised where he was, and the knot in Dean's stomach loosened a little when he saw it.

"You're gonna be okay, Sam. I've got you." Dean said it as much for his own benefit as Sam's, and started to relax a little himself as he draped a second blanket over his brother. There was light at the end of the tunnel now - just one last thing he had to do before they could leave this cold, dark hellhole.

"I've gotta go and take care of something, Sam. I'll be back in a couple of minutes." Dean didn't want to leave Sam alone again, but he also couldn't leave the hunters' bodies just laying where they were - Owen was probably covered in Dean's DNA.

"Mmm." Sam nodded almost imperceptibly - he didn't mind being left alone now he was safe in the back of the Impala.

"Okay, Sammy. Sit tight." Dean reached into the front and turned on the heater before he softly shut the door, then took a deep breath and went back into the file room.

He stood over Ray's body, at the edge of the blood pool, keeping the door firmly shut on that little voice in his head that told him he should feel remorse for doing this to another human being. Later, Dean would wonder what was broken in this 'human being' on the floor to allow him to do the things he'd done - right now, though, he grabbed the body by the wrists and dragged it out into the warehouse to a stack of wooden crates near the file room door.

He was just about to dump it there when he saw a woman's hand sticking out from under a crate - Dean didn't know it, because the tattoos had faded away to nothing, but the hand belonged to Owen and Ray's captive Djinn. They'd had the same plan as Dean: dump the bodies in the pile of wooden crates and incinerate the lot.

"Jesus Christ - what were you bastards _doing_ here?" Dean wasn't exactly shocked to find another body lying around - he wouldn't put anything past these guys, and he didn't want to know what they'd wanted with her. He dragged Ray's body further in amongst the crates then checked for a pulse in the woman's wrist, just in case. He didn't find one, and her skin was cold, so he left her undisturbed and went back into the file room to collect Owen.

Dean didn't stick around to contemplate this last body - having killed Owen with his bare hands, it was hard for Dean to look at his face. The hunter's eyes stared up at him accusingly, from a head twisted at an impossible angle. Dean sighed and grasped Owen by the ankles, and was just about to drag the body through the door of the file room when heard footsteps outside in the warehouse.

Dean froze. He knew it wasn't Sam walking around out there - even if he _could_ get out of the Impala and stand up, he didn't have shoes on. Whoever was walking around out there was definitely not in bare feet. Actually, they almost sounded like high heels...

He slowly and quietly lowered Owen's feet to the floor, pulled his Colt from his waistband and peered through the half-open door - when he saw who was out there, his could hardly believe his eyes. It was Kate, the waitress from Johnny Blue's, and she was standing right over Ray's body. The distressed look on her face made it plain that she knew him.

"Friend of yours?" Dean asked, stepping out of the file room. Kate wheeled around to find his silver Colt aimed right at the centre of her chest.

"There's no great explanation for why I'm here, huh?" She saw the hard look on Dean's face and didn't even bother trying to lie. She flinched when she caught sight of Owen's body behind him, partially visible through the open door.

"So how do you know these guys?" It was blatantly obvious to Dean that she had known both of the hunters he'd killed tonight, and she didn't bother trying to deny it.

"The one you shot between the eyes was my uncle Ray." Kate had a much thicker Southern accent now, very similar to Ray's - her cover was blown, and she wasn't bothering to suppress it anymore.

Dean's eyes narrowed as he studied the young woman in front of him, rapidly thinking the situation through. It didn't take him long to put the pieces together. "You were in on this from the jump, right? Keeping an eye on Sam while your uncle and his buddy set this up?" Dean asked, and was a little taken aback when Kate actually smiled.

"I was more than that, honey - I found Sam in the first place. Completely by accident, while I was working at Johnny Blue's as cover for another job." She seemed almost proud of the role she'd played in Sam's kidnapping, and Dean almost shot her dead right there. His finger was tightening on the trigger when it occurred to him that she was much more talkative than Ray had been - _better see what you can find out before you ventilate this bitch_, he thought, and released the pressure on the trigger as he considered what to ask next.

"You did the masking ritual too?" Dean went on, after a few seconds' pause, and Kate nodded.

"I did. Ran you 'round in circles." She smiled again, and Dean's trigger finger twitched. He _really_ wanted to shoot her.

"You cost me some time, yeah, but I know a more powerful witch than you. She punched through your hocus-pocus pretty fast," he replied instead, then cocked his head slightly to the side as something occurred to him. "_You_ untied the one I left out here, didn't you?" he asked, and she laughed.

"Yeah - I cut Owen loose and gave him my gun. I'd have been here sooner, but I had to go back to my car for my backup .22," she explained, and Dean was amazed at how calm she was. _This girl must have ice in her veins._

"You know, my uncle told me you were the riskiest thing about this plan. If y'all found out what we were doing with your brother, you'd hunt us down like animals." Her smile faltered as she looked over at her uncle's body, and it was Dean's turn to smile.

"Your uncle Ray was right." he said, and cocked the hammer on the Colt as Kate reached behind her back - Dean had no doubt that .22 was tucked into the waistband of her jeans, and he had a feeling he knew where this was headed.

Kate smiled ruefully, and her hand closed around grip of the pistol that was indeed hidden at the small of her back. She began to pull it free, and Dean didn't hesitate. Before she could even raise the gun, he shot her twice in the chest.

Kate's eyes widened, and the pistol dropped from her nerveless fingers as she sank to her knees. The redhead looked down at the scarlet stain spreading across her chest and collapsed heavily onto the floor, gun clattering to the concrete beside her. Dean watched the colour drain from Kate's face as her torn aorta filled her chest with blood, then as her eyes fluttered shut and she stopped breathing.

Staring down at his third fatality of the night, he couldn't quite believe how fast this day had gone to hell. _As long as Sam isn't the fourth death tonight, it's all worth it._

Dean sighed wearily, and tucked the Colt back into the waistband of his jeans. He grasped Kate under the arms and pitched her body into the stack of crates next to her uncle, then added Owen's rapidly-cooling corpse to the collection. He was about to douse the crates in lighter fluid he'd retrieved from the Impala's trunk, but as he was unscrewing the cap he remembered Owen's red pickup._ Can't just leave that lying around._

Dean set the bottle of lighter fluid down, and went over to the truck: he had a plan. He put the pickup in neutral, released the handbrake and pushed it over to the crates, letting it come to rest with the front bumper touching the pile of wood. He unscrewed the fuel filler cap, stuffed an old cotton shirt down into the fuel tank, and only then did he saturate the pile of crates with the lighter fluid.

Before the accelerant could evaporate and fill the air with fumes, he lit an entire matchbook and threw it right into the centre - the crates were engulfed by orange flames within seconds, throwing out such an amazing amount of heat that Dean only hung around long enough to ignite the pickup's t-shirt fuse before he ran back to the Impala. He took a quick look back at his very own Towering Inferno as he jumped into the driver's seat, glanced at Sam resting (and still breathing) in the back, then gunned the engine and tore out of the warehouse.

The Impala was pulling out onto the street when Owen's pickup exploded - it blew a hole in the building's corrugated iron roof, releasing a plume of black smoke into the night sky that was eerily lit by the fire below. Dean saw the building going up in flames in his rearview mirror, and smiled. _That's what you get for messing with my brother._

* * *

><p><em>I've been wanting to write this chapter for about a month now - ever since the Djinn touched Sam - but there was much more than I expected between there and here. Evil!Dean is just one of the things that didn't make an appearance in my outline when I started writing <em>Taken _all those weeks ago, and I had no idea it was g__o__ing to go on for this long when I started. (Loving it though!)_

_Ch 7 would have been up sooner, but I just got back from a week in Sydney, indulging my inner fangirl at Supanova. I can tell you that Sean Maher is lovely; Amy Acker is the sweetest person on the face of the Earth; Corin Nemec was the nicest, most genuine guy I met all weekend (he was my favourite); Gareth David-Lloyd was __nothing__ like Ianto Jones (Gareth is something of a party animal!) and James Marsters is intriguing and just wonde__r__ful (and so warm and cuddly!). But that's all beside the point..._

_So - as usual, I want to know what you think. Please, review! And if you're enjoying this saga of mine, click a share button at the top of the page and tell someone!_


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Before the blazing warehouse was even out of the Impala's mirrors, Dean had pulled out his phone and called Dr. Brad Sinclair - attending physician at the University Hospital ER in Columbia, Missouri, and the doctor Sam and Dean had saved from a vengeful spirit. He answered on the sixth ring.

_"This is Dr. Sinclair."_ The voice on the other end of the phone sounded tired, like Dean had woken him up. Being that it was after midnight, Dean figured he probably had.

"Brad, this is Dean Winchester. You remember me and my brother Sam?" Dean replied, trying to keep his voice composed.

_"I remember. What do you need?"_ the doctor replied immediately - being haunted wasn't something he'd soon forget. He heard the stress in Dean's voice and figured this wasn't a social call, so he didn't waste time with small talk.

"Sam's hurt, and he needs more help than I can give him. You know we avoid hospitals when we can, but we're only about 50 miles away from you - can you help us?" Dean asked, bluntly. He hadn't intended to be so forthright, and a short silence on the doctor's end made him wonder for a second if he'd screwed this up.

_"Of course I'll help. What happened to Sam?"_ Dr. Sinclair replied, and Dean let out a sigh of relief. _Thank God._

"Look, it's a long story, but Sam was kidnapped yesterday and I only just got him back. The guys that took him... well, they tortured him," he told Brad slowly, looking in the rearview mirror at his little brother lying motionless in the back seat and still hardly breathing. Dean took a deep breath before he went on.

"He's got broken ribs, knife wounds, burns, and some broken fingers and toes. They also tore his back up with a whip, and he's probably got internal injuries I can't see. He's not breathing well, either - really shallow and irregular." Dean felt tears stinging the back of his eyes as he listed Sam's injuries. Somehow, saying it out loud made it real.

_"Okay - Dean, are you sure you don't want to take Sam to a hospital?"_ Dr. Sinclair sounded more serious now - that list of injuries was longer than he'd been expecting, and it was obvious he thought Sam should be hospitalised.

"I can't risk that, doc. There are too many things looking for the two of us right now and we need to stay off the radar if we can." Dean sighed, steering the car with his knees while he rubbed his eyes. He understood that the doctor only wanted what was best for Sam, but Brad didn't understand that the Winchester boys were in the middle of a war. They couldn't afford to put themselves out in the open and risk the other side tracking them down.

The doctor paused for a second before he answered. _"Well, if you can't go to the hospital, there's a clinic nearby that's closed at night. I volunteer there, and it should have all the equipment I need to look after Sam - it's on Anthony Street, near the Boone Hospital Centre. I'll meet you there."_

Dean immediately committed the address to memory. "Thanks. We'll be there in less than half an hour." He hung up and shoved his phone back into his pocket, then took another look at Sam in the rearview mirror. "Don't worry, Sammy, we're going to get you some help." he said, and anxiously chewed on his bottom lip as he pealed out onto the interstate. Inside the car, it was silent for once - Dean had turned the radio off so he could listen to Sam's breathing. Or, more accurately, so he'd know if it stopped.

Almost within sight of the clinic in Columbia, just as Dean was starting to relax, he heard Sam's breathing starting to get more strained. It wasn't just shallow and irregular now - it sounded like Sam was having trouble getting enough air into his lungs. "Hang on, Sammy, we're almost there!" Dean could hear Sam stirring in the back seat as he struggled to inhale - he was conscious enough to know he couldn't breathe properly, and he was obviously scared. He was paler than he had been, with flushed red spots high on his cheeks, and covered in a thin film of sweat.

Sam had to work incredibly hard for every breath, using all the accessory muscles in his abdomen, chest and back to expand his chest as far as was physically possible. He was ignoring the pain from his broken ribs, the need for oxygen overriding the desire to not disturb the fractures, and the sight of him sent Dean's heart rate through the roof.

_This isn't good, Dean. Hurry the hell up._ He gunned the engine, breaking the speed limit all the way down Anthony Street.

As the Impala screeched to a stop outside the clinic, Brad opened the front door and came outside with a wheelchair. Dean leapt out of the car and pulled the back door open, and was leaning in to get Sam just as Brad reached them.

"How's he looking?" the doctor asked, as Dean started to bring Sam out of the back seat as quickly and gently as he could.

"His breathing's worse now," he answered, groaning as he strained to lift his 6"4' little brother - he was still 220lb of dead weight and that was hard work, even as fit as Dean was.

With some help from the doctor, Dean managed to get the blanket-wrapped Sam into the wheelchair, up a concrete ramp and into the clinic. Brad led him briskly through the eggshell-blue waiting area and past the consulting rooms, into a small, sterile-white room designated 'Acute Care' by black lettering applied to the frosted glass panel in the door. They laid Sam out on a gurney, and Dr. Sinclair immediately put an oxygen mask over his face and turned the gas on. That helped a little: he had to make less of an effort to breathe, but still couldn't seem to get enough air. Dean stood back a little, one hand on his hip as he ran the other through his hair, watching anxiously as the doctor started listening to Sam's chest, paying particular attention to the left side.

With Sam now in the capable hands of Dr. Sinclair, Dean could finally take a minute to contemplate their situation. On the drive to Columbia, when he hadn't been looking at the road or at Sam, he'd been checking the rearview mirror for anyone following them. He hadn't seen any tails, and he was almost certain there was no-one tracking them - _there's probably no-one left,_ he'd reasoned - but Dean knew he couldn't take any chances. If someone (or something) _did_ turn up to try and finish the job Owen, Ray and Kate had started, he sure as hell wanted to have something more substantial than his Colt and a magazine-and-a-half of regular lead ammunition.

"I have to get a few things from the trunk, doc. I'll be right back." As much as he hated to leave Sam, Dean knew he was in good hands. The doctor nodded wordlessly as he took Sam's blood pressure, and Dean took one last look at his baby brother before he ran back down the carpeted hallway and out to the Impala. He ransacked the trunk, grabbing an assortment of weapons: knives, guns, ammunition (conventional lead rounds and salt shells) and even some holy water, and tossing it all into an olive drab duffel bag.

"Come after us now - I dare you." Dean muttered to no-one in particular, as his eyes quickly scanned the deserted street. Satisfied no-one was lurking in the shadows watching him, he slammed the trunk, slung the duffel over his shoulder and jogged back up to the clinic. He was feeling a little better now he was properly armed.

When Dean got back into the acute care room, things had changed dramatically. He skidded to a stop just inside the door, eyes wide as he took in the scene. He barely noticed as the duffel fell from his hand and landed hard on his foot, all his concentration focused on his little brother lying motionless on the gurney. Dean gasped as he realised why Sam was so eerily still.

_Oh God - he isn't breathing._

Time slowed down for Dean then, and the only sound he could hear was his own heart pounding in his ears. The doctor had a scalpel in his hand, and was preparing to cut into Sam's chest. He was talking to Dean, his mouth moving in slow motion as he bathed the left side of Sam's ribcage with rust-coloured iodine, but Dean didn't hear a word of it. He stood frozen for what seemed like an eternity, one thought - one prayer - repeating over and over in his head:_ Please don't take him away from me. Please don't take my little brother._

As he stood shell-shocked in the doorway, Dean heard a faint voice through the drumming in his ears. It was Dr. Sinclair, yelling at him. He blinked a couple of times, and the doctor shouted at him again: "Dean! Come over here - I need you to hold Sam's arm!" He waved Dean over to the side of the bed, and placed the dazed Winchester's hand on his brother's forearm.

"Sam has a haemopneumothorax. His left lung collapsed and I have to get the blood and air out of his chest - I need you to hold his arm out of my way." Brad told him, under control and professional again. He didn't put too fine a point on it, but Dean understood what the doctor meant: _if I don't reinflate his lung, your brother's going to die. You need to get a grip and help me._

Dean took a deep breath and gingerly bent Sam's arm up over his head, holding it down to the mattress. "Sam, don't you _dare _die on me!" Dean told his brother, quietly but intensely. Hs heart was racing as he held back Sam's arm, a slight fever making his skin hot to the touch.

He watched the doctor count down the ribs on Sam's left side, then make an incision into the fifth intercostal space as Dean prayed silently to God, or whoever was in charge of life and death these days, not to take him. His eyes went back to Sam's face and filled with tears as he watched his baby brother's lips turning blue.

As Dr. Sinclair used a surgical clamp to swiftly dissect the layers of intercostal muscles underneath the incision, Dean winced. "Don't worry, Sam can't feel any of this - I anaesthetised the area just after you left. I saw this coming as soon as I listened to his lungs, and I was prepping for the chest tube when he went into respiratory arrest." Brad answered the question before Dean could ask it. Dean nodded, and drew a shaky breath as a frothy trickle of bloody fluid ran out of the incision, down the side of Sam's chest and soaked into the bedlinen beneath him.

"You're gonna be okay, Sammy. We're gonna save you." Dean assured Sam, his voice barely above a whisper as he watched the doctor introduce the chest tube - it looked impossibly huge to Dean, like a length of clear garden hose with an array of small holes at one end and a surgical clamp closing off the other. As Brad slid the perforated end deep into the pleural space inside Sam's chest, the tube immediately filled with the same bloody fluid that had escaped from the initial incision.

"It's gonna be all right, Sammy." Dean patted his brother's arm, saying the words mostly for his own benefit. Sam was out cold, and he couldn't hear anything Dean was saying.

Dean wasn't quite prepared for what happened next. Dr. Sinclair set the end of the tube into a plastic bowl and removed the clamp, and there was an audible whooshing sound as air that had been collecting in Sam's chest bubbled out, followed by a stream of purplish-red fluid full of half-clotted blood. Suddenly, Sam took a deep, gasping breath and started breathing on his own again - he remained unconscious, but the colour slowly returned to his face as Dean watched, and he heaved a sigh of relief as he put Sam's arm back down by his side. It was only when he reached for a towel to wipe the film of sweat from his little brother's face that he realised his hands were shaking.

"How long did these guys have Sam?" Brad asked, attaching the end of the tube to a collection container before he began suturing the perforated end to Sam's chest.

"About 24 hours, but I don't know how long they actually spent..." Dean trailed off, and Brad looked up to see his bloodshot eyes fixed on the purplish-red puddle collecting in the bottom of the canister. Each breath he took forced more air and fluid out of Sam's chest, and it was collecting rapidly in the plastic container.

"Is that normal? All that bleeding?" Dean asked, his gaze moving up to the doctor. He was controlling it well, looking relatively composed as he wiped the sweat from his brother's forehead, but Brad could see that Dean was still terrified Sam might die.

The doctor sighed as he considered his answer. "The men that took your brother used him as a punching bag, Dean. He's got broken ribs, and that often comes with damaged blood vessels inside the chest and sometimes a punctured lung as well. I'd say Sam has been slowly bleeding into his chest for hours now, and he likely has a small tear in his left lung. Blood and air have been accumulating in his chest to the point that his lung collapsed, but the tube I just put in will keep draining it until his lung heals and the bleeding stops." Dr. Sinclair was treating Dean like next-of-kin now, explaining and reassuring. He could see the eldest Winchester was exhausted, and needed someone else to drive the bus for a while.

"So that's not gonna happen again?" Dean asked, sinking into a nearby chair and rubbing his hands over his face.

"It shouldn't, no." Dr. Sinclair sounded confident, and that made Dean feel slightly better.

"Okay, so what now?" He watched as Brad took Sam's blood pressure again and listened to his heart and lungs through his stethoscope.

"I'm going to do exactly what I'd do if you brought Sam into the ER." he replied, replacing the stethoscope around his neck. "I'm going to set up an IV, take some x-rays, then start patching him up." he went on, and Dean nodded. Now that he'd got Sam this far, into the care of an actual, licensed doctor, he could start to relax. Dr. Sinclair was very good at his job, Dean knew, and he felt comfortable leaving his brother's life in this man's hands. At least, as comfortable as a Winchester could be when he wasn't in control.

"_Can_ you patch him up?" Dean asked somewhat apprehensively, his voice low. He watched with tired eyes as Brad slid a cannula into a vein on the back of Sam's right hand, well-practiced and efficient. Dean was worn out, his nerves were shot, and his body craved sleep; but there was no way he could even _consider_ getting any rest until he knew Sam was out of the woods. He got up and busied himself setting down lines of salt at the door and windows, trying to keep the drowsiness at bay.

As Dean laid down his salt, Brad took stock of the assortment of lacerations, wounds, burns and bruises that covered Sam's body. "I can't work miracles, Dean. Your brother's going to have some pretty significant scars, but there's only so much I can do without access to an OR and a plastic surgeon," he began, connecting the clear plastic IV tubing as he spoke.

"If I saw Sam in the University Hospital ER, I'd send him to the burn centre, get a consultation from plastics, and have him in surgery before dawn. I'm guessing we can't actually do any of that, though." Brad looked over at Dean as he opened the IV line and let the saline flow. He could see Dean was conflicted.

As he stood at the window, staring at his pale, unconscious little brother, every instinct screamed at Dean to avoid the hospital. There would be forms and questions and records... they couldn't justify that unless it was life or death, and it wasn't. Not anymore, anyway. On the other hand, the big brother in him wanted to erase all traces of this ordeal; Dean wanted _so badly_ to tell Brad to patch Sam up, take him over to University Hospital and do everything he could to minimise the scars that would remind Sam every day what Owen and Ray had done to him.

Brad saw this internal struggle play out on Dean's face, and offered up a solution so simple Dean couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it. "Look, you don't have to decide now. Let me stabilise Sam and get him stitched up, and maybe then he can answer the question for you. If he wants me to, I'll refer him to a plastic surgeon I know that owes me a favour," Dr. Sinclair said, as he picked up a hypodermic needle. "Does Sam have any allergies?" he asked, and Dean shook his head. He finished his last salt line as the doctor injected two substances into Sam's IV - a strong, broad-spectrum antibiotic and some morphine.

"You're planning on x-raying Sam's ribs, right?" Dean asked suddenly, as something occurred to him.

"I am." Brad replied slowly, looking up from the IV. Dean smiled a little as he put the salt container back in his duffel, then realised Brad was looking at him like he was crazy. He couldn't understand what Dean found amusing about a chest-ful of broken ribs.

"Sam and I both have a heap of angelic graffiti carved into our ribs. You're gonna be hard-pressed to see anything through that." Dean explained, and the doctor raised his eyebrows.

"Angels." He thought that over for a second, but apparently angels aren't such a big leap after being haunted by a vengeful spirit, because he didn't freak out. "Um, okay - well, I guess I'll just have to check what I can see. Give me a hand, will you?" Brad kicked the brakes off the gurney's wheels, and he and Dean wheeled the unconscious Sam into the x-ray room. The doctor proceeded to x-ray every bone in Sam's body, while Dean paced restlessly back and forth behind the lead shield.

Back in the acute care room, while Dr. Sinclair studied the digital x-ray images, Dean sat quietly next to his semi-conscious little brother until a small gasp from the doctor drew him over to the screen. He looked over Brad's left shoulder at the x-ray of Sam's chest - just as he'd predicted, Cas' angelic chicken-scratch obscured all but the worst damage to Sam's ribs.

"Told you." He smiled grimly as Brad zoomed in and traced a sigil on Sam's sternum with his finger.

"That's amazing." he breathed - he'd never seen anything remotely like this, and he took a minute to study it silently. He wasn't used to analysing a chest x-ray filled with Enochian sigils, but he was coping pretty well with the whole angels-are-real thing and Dean was actually kind of impressed.

The x-rays of the rest of Sam's body were much more revealing, and any levity in the room disappeared when Brad started counting broken bones - he actually had to make a list. As he scribbled each fracture down on a piece of paper, he read it out for Dean.

"Sam has six broken ribs; fractures to his left cheekbone and eye socket; a broken nose; a fractured left wrist; fractured metacarpals in both hands and fractured, dislocated fingers on his left; a small hairline fracture to the right iliac crest of his pelvis; and his right foot is a mess of broken metatarsals and four toes that have basically been shattered." Brad didn't even try to sugarcoat it. There was just no way of making that list sound anything less than horrific.

Brad switched the screen off as soon as he was finished assessing the images, and Dean went wordlessly back to his seat beside Sam. His eyes were shining with tears as he looked again at the bloody, swollen reality of the injuries that looked so clean on the x-rays.

"He's not in any pain, Dean, and all these injuries will heal. He'll be okay." Dr. Sinclair told him, and Dean smiled bitterly.

"He _was_ in pain, though. For hours - I found him hanging by his wrists from the ceiling, and when I cut him down I heard the broken bones grating." He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. "How is he ever going to be okay after that?" Dean asked softly, looking down at Sam's bruised and swollen face. Brad could see that Dean was blaming himself for his little brother's condition, but he didn't have any idea why and Dean obviously didn't want to talk about it.

So, instead of pushing the brooding Dean to talk, Dr. Sinclair set about patching Sam up. There were so many injuries to deal with that he initially wasn't sure where to start, but after cutting the remains of Sam's clothes off him it became obvious that the first thing he should do was get this kid clean. Sam was covered in blood, sweat, dirt, and worse, and that was likely what had caused the infection responsible for his fever.

The doctor filled a big plastic bowl with warm water and a little disinfectant soap, then used a towel to start wiping Sam down from head to toe. He was surprised when Dean wordlessly picked up a second towel and began to help, tentatively at first, but with more confidence as he saw the dirt and blood coming away from his little brother's skin.

Brad and Dean couldn't help irritating some of Sam's numerous wounds, and occasionally he would try and pull away or moan softly, scrunching up his face and furrowing his brow. Dean stopped and looked up at Dr. Sinclair, who smiled reassuringly. "He's not in any pain, Dean, don't worry. He can feel us touching the wounds, but it's not hurting him," the doctor said, and kept washing. Dean didn't, though - he continued studying Sam's face, crumpled up like he was still in pain.

"Why not give him some more morphine?" Dean asked, and Brad took a breath before he answered.

"Morphine can depress respiration in large doses, and although he's breathing fine at the moment, I want to give Sam as little as I can. And he might need more when I start setting bones and cleaning his wounds, so I want to minimise how much he has now." Again, he didn't beat around the bush. Dean looked away from Sam's face and concentrated on rinsing and wringing his towel - he hated the idea that Sam might have to endure any more torture tonight.

"Don't worry, Dean. I should be able to patch him up without causing him any further pain." Brad assured him - he didn't want to hurt Sam any more either; the poor kid had definitely had enough of that for one day. The limp, pale form in front of him now was worlds away from the energetic, personable young man he'd met a year ago, and Brad couldn't believe someone could do such awful things to such a nice guy.

When they were done washing, Brad and Dean had turned three bowls of water a murky red-brown, and the angry scarlet wounds and purple bruises now stood out starkly against Sam's clean, pale skin. While he was wiping dirt and blood and sweat off his little brother, Dean had had a chance to get a good, close-up look at Owen and Ray's handiwork: beyond the numerous lacerations and burns and bruises, Dean saw the fingernails torn out at the roots; the fingers that had been viciously dislocated, one by one; the deep cuts that had been packed with salt...

Dean knew all too well the kinds of things those animals had done to his little brother, and he found himself wishing he'd made them suffer more before he'd ended them. There was a part of him - a bigger part than he'd like to admit - that would have taken pleasure in doing to them what they'd done to Sam. That, and worse; Dean had skills Owen and Ray couldn't have dreamed of, and he would have done things to them they'd never imagined in their darkest nightmares. They didn't think so at the time, but Owen and Ray - and even Kate - had gotten off lightly.

Dean quickly put those thoughts firmly out of his mind, and watched Dr. Sinclair examining Sam's right foot with newly-gloved hands. "A couple of these toes have compound fractures. I'd kill for an OR right now," he muttered under his breath, and Dean frowned.

"Compound fractures are bad, right?" he asked, and Brad nodded.

"The broken ends of the bone have been exposed to the outside environment through open wounds. I need to clean those wounds and close them so the bone doesn't get infected." He went over to a supply cupboard and started picking out various boxes and packages.

"I'd really prefer to do this is an OR under a general anaesthetic, but I can give Sam a nerve block and do it here without causing him any pain," he added, and Dean watched silently as the doctor finished collecting his equipment. Brad quickly set up a sterile field, saturating Sam's entire foot with iodine and draping everything below mid-shin with sterile cloths. When he was satisfied the area was as aseptic as he could make it, the doctor put several injections of local anaesthetic into Sam's ankle, targeting the nerves supplying his foot and flooding them with lidocaine. While that was taking effect, he went over to the sink to thoroughly scrub his hands and forearms.

Dean pulled the plastic chair right up to Sam's bedside and sat down, looking on as Dr. Sinclair set out a small collection of surgical instruments, syringes, gauze and sutures, then pulled on a fresh set of latex gloves and started working on Sam's right foot. Owen had hit the four smaller toes with a hammer, striking each toe progressively harder, and when he worked his way down to the fourth and fifth toes they had split open like overcooked sausages. Brad could see fragments of white bone in the bottom of the wounds, but apart from clotted blood and a few specks of dirt, they actually looked fairly clean.

Dean was now standing up and watching from a few feet away - when Brad had started poking around in the open wounds, he found he couldn't sit still. So, he got up out of his uncomfortable plastic chair and started pacing instead. "There's not a lot of contamination in here. I've seen compound fractures full of everything from dirt to broken glass, and this is pretty clean." Dr. Sinclair was pleased to be able to give Dean some good news for once, but it didn't improve his mood much. He continued pacing silently beside the gurney.

The doctor could see there was nothing he could say that was going to make Dean feel any better about this situation, so he got on with closing the wounds. It didn't take long to thoroughly wash the torn flesh and neaten up the edges, but he just didn't have the instruments he needed to repair the multiple fractures. So Dr. Sinclair aligned the bones as best he could and closed the wounds, one layer at a time. Dean watched on, still pacing like a caged animal.

It was only when Brad was finished suturing that Dean finally understood why he had numbed Sam's whole foot and not just the toes he'd operated on - he started manipulating the other broken digits with his gloved fingers, trying to re-align the fragments of bone. Dean winced when he heard the ragged ends grating on each other as Dr. Sinclair reduced the fractures as much as he could.

"It's quite possible Sam won't have much movement in these toes when they heal, but I'm going to make the bones as straight as I can," he told Dean, unfocused eyes looking off into the distance as he manoeuvred the broken bones by feel.

"We're lucky this is _all_ they did to him, doc," Dean replied, matter-of-factly, and Brad looked at him in surprise. The eldest Winchester was now standing stock-still, arms crossed over his chest, watching every move the doctor made with dark eyes.

"Dean, what the hell happened to make those guys do this to Sam?" Dr. Sinclair had been dying to know ever since Dean had called him earlier that night, completely out of the blue.

"You don't wanna know." Dean scowled, and Brad frowned.

"Don't you think I deserve to know why I'm here patching up these injuries in the middle of the night?" he asked, simply, and Dean's eyes narrowed a little as he thought that over. Deep down, he knew the doctor was right.

_The guy is going out on a helluva limb to help Sam - you owe him an explanation._

After a few seconds' pause, Dean took a deep breath and started to give him one. "The guys that took Sam... they thought he'd done something really bad. Evil, actually. As far as they were concerned, he was a creature worth hunting - he wasn't really human, in their eyes. They could have done worse." He spoke slowly, neglecting to mention what Sam had actually done, and also that it was _exactly_ what the hunters had suspected. "They were about to kill Sam when I got there, and when I went in to rescue him they tried to kill _me_," Dean continued, watching Brad start working on the last of Sam's broken toes.

"I just wish I'd gotten there earlier." He sighed, and while the doctor splinted Sam's right foot and took another x-ray, Dean told him the whole story. How he'd driven into Blue Springs to find Sam missing to turning up at the warehouse and hearing Sam's screams, and even burning the hunters' bodies before he left Odessa; although he left out the parts about Lucifer, the looming Apocalypse and Sam's demon blood addiction.

Those weren't things Dean even wanted _think _about, and he sure as hell didn't feel like explaining it all to Dr. Sinclair - even if he _was _saving Sam's life. He felt kind of bad about not giving the doctor the whole story, but Dean told himself it was for the best.

_No reason to scare the crap out of this guy by telling him the Apoc__a__lypse is starting. If M__i__chael and Lucifer do go head to head and demolish the planet, then at least he'll be able to enjoy what time he has left._

Brad listened silently to the whole saga as he worked, and when he was finished telling his abridged version of the story Dean half-expected him to pick up the phone and call the cops. Instead, he looked up from the x-ray on the screen in front of him and said something Dean never expected to hear come out of a doctor's mouth.

"You did the right thing." Brad told him, firmly. Dean stared back at him for a second, not quite able to believe what he was hearing.

"So you're _not_ going to turn me in to the cops for committing a triple murder...?" he asked, eyebrows raised, and the doctor gave him a tired smile.

"You saved Sam's life, Dean. Your little brother was kidnapped by people that were going to kill him - that almost _did_ kill him - and you got him back. You did what you had to do." Brad looked back down at the computer screen, and Dean could see he genuinely believed that. He wasn't about to spoil the moment by admitting he was going to shoot the hunters dead anyway, whether they tried to hurt him or not.

It was after two o'clock in the morning when Brad finished with Sam's foot and moved on to the wounds that covered the rest of his body. He started with the deepest lacerations and burns - the ones Owen and Ray had inflicted late that night, when they were finished trying to get information out of Sam and just wanted to hurt him. He gave Sam as much morphine as he dared, but when he started to cut the dead, charred flesh from the deep wound in his thigh the youngest Winchester groaned and stirred, trying to pull away.

Dean jumped out of his chair and was immediately at his brother's side as Dr. Sinclair drew the forceps and scalpel back, frowning. "I thought he couldn't feel anything?" Dean looked at Brad, confusion clouding his face.

"There are some really serious wounds here, Dean, and I can't give Sam enough morphine to kill _all_ the pain. I've given him as much as I can and I hoped it would be enough, but debriding these burns is obviously breaking through." He scrubbed a hand over his face, considering his other options.

"Can't you use some more local on the deep wounds?" Dean asked what he figured was an obvious question, and Brad pursed his lips as he thought.

"You can overdose on lidocaine, too, Dean," he sighed, but picked up the syringe anyway. "What I'd give to have an anaesthetist." he muttered under his breath, injecting the muscle around the wound with as little lidocaine as possible. Dean hovered over him now, watching every move.

"Sit down, will you? Sam will need you to be 100% when you guys leave here, so for the love of God, get some rest." Brad stood up and actually pushed Dean back onto a second gurney sitting against the far wall. Dean looked mildly shocked at first, but the irritation was quickly overshadowed by the realisation that he was going to have to look after Sam when the doctor was done saving his life.

Looking after one another after an injury wasn't uncommon for Sam and Dean - bruised ribs, the odd dislocated shoulder or sometimes a concussion. Usually it only meant one brother making all the food and coffee runs, carrying all the bags, stuff like that - but neither of them had every been this badly hurt and not been in hospital, so this was uncharted territory.

_I've never even had to keep a _house plant _alive before,_ Dean thought to himself, as the gravity of the situation dawned on him. _How the hell am I going to look after Sam?_

"What am I going to do with him when you're finished stitching him up?" Dean asked, and the doctor looked up from Sam's leg.

"Well, I've been thinking about that. There's a motel on Waugh Street that I pass by on the way to and from work: I want to set Sam up there with an IV and everything you'll need to look after him, and I'd come by every day to check on him and change dressings and things like that." he replied, and Dean raised his eyebrows.

"You'd do that for us?" he asked, the surprise showing in his voice, and Brad smiled.

"You two helped me once, and I'm just returning the favour. I can't leave Sam like this." The doctor genuinely liked the Winchester boys, and he couldn't abandon them in their hour of need. His conscience wouldn't let him. Dean couldn't help but smile a little as he sat on the gurney - this was the second person that had gone above and beyond for them today, and it was nice not to have to muddle through by himself for once.

"Thanks for doing this, doc. You could've hung up on me when I called out of the blue and woke you up in the middle of the night, but you didn't. I just want you to know how grateful I am - Sam is all I have, and I don't know what I'd do without him." Dean told the doctor, somewhat awkwardly. Usually he would rather walk over hot coals than share his feelings like that, but he wanted Brad to know how much this meant to him, so he sucked it up and got the words out as smoothly as he could.

"You did the hard part, Dean - you rescued him. I'm honestly just glad I can help you guys this time." The doctor smiled.

"How long do you think it'll take him to get up and around?" Dean asked, changing the subject as he leaned back against the wall. Brad thought about that for a minute as he continued debriding burnt flesh. Dean tried to ignore the crunching sound of the metal instruments on the crisp, black edges of the wound.

"That depends on Sam. If he doesn't develop a serious infection, it's just a matter of healing time. He should be feeling better in a couple of days, but beyond that... I can't say for sure." Dr. Sinclair flushed the wound in Sam's thigh with saline as he spoke. A stream of bloody liquid carried with it chunks of clotted blood and scraps of charred skin and muscle as it ran down his thigh, leaving a pink stain on the linen, its edges ringed with charcoal. The doctor then began to close the layers of tissue as Dean watched with tired eyes, fighting his body's demands for sleep.

By the time Dr. Sinclair was finished debriding, cleaning, suturing, and also setting Sam's broken wrist, sunlight was starting to seep in through the blinds. Dean had finally lost the battle and fallen asleep just after three a.m., curled up on the gurney by the wall.

Brad roused him gently, and it took Dean a few seconds to remember where he was. "Is Sam okay?" he asked sleepily, looking up at Brad's tired features. The doctor looked exhausted.

"He's fine, but I've done as much as I can for him. I cleaned his lacerations, debrided the burns, put in probably a few hundred sutures and dressed all the wounds that really needed it. I also cleaned his back as best I could, but there's not much else I can do for damage like that." Brad told Dean, who took it all in silently as he looked over at Sam resting peacefully across the room.

His breathing was slow and even and his colour was good - if there weren't huge dark circles under his eyes and the left side of his face wasn't bruised and swollen, you might not even have been able to tell the kid had just been through hell.

Dean got up off the gurney and groaned as his stiff limbs protested the sudden movement. As he stretched, his eyes fell on a cardboard box by the door that was filled to the brim with dressings, painkillers, antibiotics, syringes and all sorts of other medical paraphernalia.

"Is that all for Sam?" he asked, and the doctor nodded.

"I'll bring some fresh IV bags with me when I visit, but there's a week's worth of dressings and things in there. When we get Sam settled in the motel, I'll go through it all with you." He scrubbed a hand over his face and stifled a yawn.

"Guess it's time to go, then." Dean pulled his car keys out of his pocket, and Dr. Sinclair went to get the wheelchair.

* * *

><p><em>Thanks so much for all the lovely reviews for Chapter 7! *hugs and apple pie all round!*<em>_  
>Dean shooting out Ray's kneecap was by far the most popular event, followed closely by him killing Owen, Ray and Kate... Who knew you were such a bloo<em>_d__thirsty lot? ;)_

_This might sound a little crazy, but this chapter was kinda fun to write. During all those human pathology and anatomy lectures (and cadaver dissections) at uni, I never expected to use the knowledge for fanfiction...! I didn't even know I remembered most of this stuff, and it was a pleasant surprise when it started a__p__pearing on the page in front of me :) Just like riding a bike, I guess!__  
>It felt like a bit like my Grey's Anatomy textbook at times, but hopefully I softened the technical detail enough. I'm sure you'll all let me know, because you're all going to r<em>_e__view, aren't you...? ;)_


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

The drive to the motel passed in something of a blur for Dean. He followed Dr. Sinclair's silver BMW for the five-minute trip, driving the Impala mostly on muscle memory, and checked himself and Sam in basically on autopilot.

It had been a long few days for Dean. He'd been in South Carolina when he called Sam to say he was coming to Blue Springs, and was worn out from the cross-country drive before he even rolled into town. So by this point - early Wednesday morning - Dean could reasonably be mistaken for the walking dead. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his hair hadn't seen a comb in days, and he needed a shower and some clean clothes. Desperately.

The young woman sitting at the reception desk barely looked up from her glossy gossip magazine as she checked him in. For once in his life, Dean didn't mind that - if she didn't look up, she wouldn't notice the fact he was covered in dirt and dried blood. This was a very good thing, because the only explanation he'd come up with thus far in his emotionally exhausted, sleep-deprived state was "It's okay, the blood isn't mine". Even half-dead as he was, Dean knew that wasn't his best work. If those words actually came out of his mouth, they'd probably get him arrested.

Dean managed to keep his aliases straight as he filled in the little check-in card ('James Hetfield' was checking in today) and paid for the room in cash. His brain was still functional enough to remind him that he shouldn't leave a paper trail by swiping one of their credit cards. Although the way John had drilled that sort of thing into his sons, that probably qualified as muscle memory too.

Dean had specifically requested a pretty out-of-the-way room; again, because that's what John taught him to do when they needed to hide. It was so out-of-the-way that you couldn't see it, or its parking spot, from the road; Dean wasn't about to let the Impala out of his sight while Sam was recuperating, but he didn't want her visible to passers-by either. Anyone looking for the Winchester boys would know immediately whose car it was.

It was harder to move the heavily-sedated Sam without the wheelchair, but Brad and Dean managed to get him inside and into one of the two queen-size beds without doing him any further damage. When he was satisfied Sam was safely ensconced under the covers of the bed farthest from the front door, Dean left his little brother in Dr. Sinclair's capable hands and ran across the road to 7-Eleven for some supplies.

The cashier glanced at Dean's bloodied shirt as he rang up a few bags worth of items, including two 3lb bags of salt and a huge foil bag of ground coffee, but if he noticed the bloodstains he didn't show it. Nevertheless, Dean casually pulled his jacket closed and tried to look non-threatening as he handed over some more of his hard-earned cash.

_This guy's probably used to pretending he doesn't see stuff like that,_ Dean told himself as he walked away from the counter towards the automatic glass doors, but glanced over his shoulder when he got outside just to make sure the cashier wasn't calling the cops. He wasn't; he was over by the in-store microwave, showing a customer how to heat up a breakfast burrito. Dean breathed a sigh of relief and hightailed it back across the road before the cashier could think about it some more and change his mind.

By the time he got back to the motel room, Brad had Sam settled in. The youngest Winchester was laying on his back, head resting on a nicely-fluffed pillow, completely still except for the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. An aluminium IV stand stood to the right of his bed, and the chest tube collection canister was on the left, sitting on the floor and taped to the leg of the nightstand. A small amount of bloody fluid ran down into it as Dean watched.

Honestly, he was pleasantly surprised to see how comfortable Sam looked, cleaned up and laying in a real bed. The covers were pulled up to his chest and his arms rested by his sides on top of the dark blue bedspread, covered in white bandages, dressings and the fresh white plaster on his left forearm. Dean knew the only reason his baby brother looked peaceful was because he was medicated up to his eyeballs, but if he could push that thought to the back of his mind, Sam could almost be sleeping. And Dean could deal with that.

Dr. Sinclair spent the next fifteen minutes walking Dean through everything he'd need to do for Sam until he was well enough to get out of bed. Pain relief, medication, wound care - things Dean had never thought he'd need to know, and some things he wished he didn't. For instance, until Dr. Sinclair told him, Dean hadn't realised that the clear plastic bag hanging from the knob on the bottom drawer of Sam's nightstand was the collection container for a urinary catheter.

Dean took in every word, though, and even made notes. There was nothing he wouldn't do for Sam, and he was sure as hell going to get this right. Sam's life literally depended on it. But that wasn't going to stop Dean actively trying to forget all about catheters and nasogastric feeding tubes the_ second_ his little brother could get out of bed.

When he was satisfied Dean was as prepared as he could make him, Dr. Sinclair left the Winchester boys alone in the motel room with instructions to call if anything changed, and headed home for a few hours' sleep. He'd assured Dean he was going to come back that night, but that didn't stop the eldest Winchester feeling very alone and out of his depth as he shut and locked the door.

Dean stood with his back against the door and sighed as he looked around the room that would be home for the foreseeable future. It was nothing special - just your average, unremarkable Midwest motel room. The walls were a yellowed beige so nondescript that Dean refused to even think of it as a colour, and a couple of generic American wilderness prints hung about the beds. Presumably they'd been intended to break up the taupe monotony, but they were so full of sandy and brown tones that they kind of blended into the dull expanse of the walls.

The floor was covered in a hard-wearing, short pile carpet that was very similar in colour to the gravel carpark outside, and beginning to get threadbare around the bathroom and at the front door. The furniture was pretty simple: mass-produced from cheap pine, or chipboard covered liberally with wood-grain laminate. Functional, and sturdy enough, but clearly not chosen for its visual appeal.

The beds were to Dean's left as he stood in the doorway, and to the right there was a small kitchenette with a slate-pattern linoleum floor, worn straw-coloured benchtops, a small fridge, a stove/oven, a microwave, and - thank Christ - a coffeemaker. The place mightn't be particularly roomy, or especially well-appointed, but it was quiet, clean, the door locked securely and heavy curtains covered the well-framed windows. All in all, a decent place to hole up until Sam was in good enough shape to travel. God knows, they'd stayed in worse.

"Right, Sammy," Dean said, clapping his hands together as he stepped away from the door, "hope you like it here, because it's gonna be home until you can get up and walk out the door." He knew he was basically talking to himself, because Sam was all but comatose, but it broke the heavy early-morning silence and just the fact that he was talking to his baby brother made Dean feel a little better.

He went over to the kitchen table, where he'd dumped his shopping from 7-Eleven, and picked up one of the 3lb bags of salt. He sliced a corner off the bag with his pocketknife and started salting the narrow sill of the window by Sam's bed.

"So what if you can't hear me?" Dean said conversationally, checking the immediate area outside through the glass as he poured the salt. He didn't see anyone. "Can't sit here in silence for-" Dean paused for a second, briefly wondering exactly how long it would be before Sam woke up, "for however long you're gonna be playing Sleeping Beauty." he said, finishing the line across the windowsill. Sam of course didn't stir, and Dean took the bag of salt to the window by the front door and started a nice, thick line there too.

"I mean, people talk to pets. They even talk to plants." Dean paused again as he heard himself comparing Sam to a plant for the second time in a matter of hours. "You'd better not stay out more than a couple of days, Sammy. I might drive myself round the bend if I've only got me to talk to," he said drily, not entirely joking, and moved on to the front door. He poured an inch-wide line of salt across the threshold of the room, starting a couple of inches to the left of the doorframe and finishing the same distance beyond the right. Better safe than sorry; demons and other supernatural nasties usually tried the door first.

After he'd secured the room with salt lines, the next thing Dean did was sit down at the little yellow-laminate kitchen table and call Bobby. He'd phoned last night from the clinic to say he had Sam and that he was going to live, but Dean knew the older hunter would want to know how Sam was and where they'd holed up. And talking to Bobby was better than talking to himself.

As it turned out Bobby was on the road, driving to Blue Springs to clean out Sam's motel room. That meant he didn't want to get into a long conversation about the exact events that took place in the warehouse when Dean turned up to get Sam, for which Dean was extremely grateful.

Dean had already given Bobby a basic rundown of the previous night's events, and the older hunter knew none of Sam's kidnappers had made it out alive, but Dean hadn't said any more than that. And he _really_ didn't feel like explaining over the phone exactly why and how he'd killed three people in under ten minutes.

_"You sound terrible, son,"_ Bobby said, a note of concern in his voice. Just because he wasn't asking for details about Dean's daring rescue didn't mean there weren't other things he wanted to talk about.

"And that makes me feel _so_ much better. Thanks." Dean rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair.

_"How long since you got any real rest?"_

Dean paused to think for a second, genuinely unsure when he'd last had a full night's sleep, and Bobby continued speaking before he could get a word out.

_"Exactly my point. You make sure you get some rest, Dean - you're no good to Sam if you're dead on your feet. Get some shuteye and stay sharp, you hear?"_ Bobby's voice was stern, and reminded Dean vaguely of John when he gave an order. He instinctively felt like he should obey.

"Yes sir." Dean replied, only a touch of half-hearted sarcasm creeping into his tone. Right now, sleep was a very attractive proposition - given the chance, Dean reckoned he could probably sleep for a week. You know, if he didn't have an unconscious little brother to look after.

"_You want me to extend this little road trip of mine and bring you Sam's things?"_

Dean sighed. "Better not - we don't know who might be watching." As much as he'd love some help looking after Sam, it was too risky. "We can fend for ourselves until Sam's ready to move, and the second he can travel we're getting the hell outta Dodge and making a beeline for your place. Hang onto Sammy's stuff and we'll come to you."

_Although God knows when that'll be,_ Dean thought, looking at his sedated baby brother. Not anytime soon, that was for damn sure.

_"Be careful, Dean. Keep your eyes open."_ Bobby knew he didn't need to say it, but he did anyway. There was a short bark of bitter laughter from Dean's end of the line.

"Nothing and no-one is coming near my little brother again, Bobby." There was a hard edge to Dean's voice that made Bobby's heart ache. Even from 100 miles away, he could tell Dean was blaming himself for Sam's current predicament - he'd known that's what would happen the second Dean had called to say his little brother was missing. It was standard operating procedure for big brother Dean to shoulder the guilt, whether real or perceived, whenever Sam got into trouble.

_"You know this whole mess ain't your fault, right?"_ he said anyway, and Dean sniffed. He obviously didn't agree.

"Yeah, whatever you say. I'll call when something changes." Dean hung up before Bobby got a chance to work the "it's not your fault" angle some more, and went over to start the coffeemaker. He filled the cold water reservoir and moved to go and get the coffee, but turned around to find Cas standing silently right behind him.

"Holy crap, Cas!" Dean took an involuntary, stumbling step back, crashing into the lip of the kitchen bench. "I told you not to _do_ that!" he gasped, rubbing at the sore spot on his lower back. _That's gonna bruise, dammit!_

Castiel blinked, regarding Dean with that oblique, mildly perplexed expression he seemed to get a lot around the Winchesters. But he took a step back and out of Dean's personal space.

"Hey, here's an idea - next time, why don't you materialise outside and _ring the frea__k__ing doorbell_?" Dean continued, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly as he leaned back against the bench and scrubbed a hand over his face.

Castiel blinked again, and knit his brows as he took in Dean's rumpled clothes, bloodshot eyes and general state of exhaustion. "I'll remember that next time," he said sedately, and Dean's eyes came up to meet his in a half-hearted glare. Then he straightened and his eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the angel.

"How'd you find us?" he asked, images of Sam's sigil-clouded chest x-rays coming to mind.

"I visited Bobby and he told me where you were. Is Sam all right?" Cas asked, genuinely concerned. He didn't mention how Bobby had been driving at the time, and had nearly run his Chevelle off the road when Cas had suddenly appeared in the passenger seat.

"No, Cas, Sam _isn't _all right." Dean said wearily, his voice a little harsher than the question probably deserved. He glanced over Cas' shoulder, and the angel turned to see for himself. He looked shocked at the extent of Sam's injuries.

"If I could heal him, I would," he said, quietly, and Dean let out a little snort of derisive laughter. Cas turned to look at him, that perplexed expression back on his face: as usual, the angel hadn't grasped the sarcasm.

Dean noticed the look and sighed. "Cas, if you could heal him, I would've taken you _with_ me to the warehouse and Sam would've been able to walk out of there." His tone was slightly bitter as he turned away and yanked the glass pot from the bottom of the coffee maker, and he could feel Cas' eyes on his back as he rinsed it with hot water from the kitchen sink. Cleaning the kitchen appliances in their random motel rooms before using them was a habit of Sam's that had rubbed off on Dean.

When he looked up, Cas was watching him. The expression on his face was unreadable, and he looked like he might be studying a particularly complex, detailed painting on the wall of a gallery somewhere. "Bobby told me what you had to do to get Sam," he said simply, and Dean immediately looked away.

"And?" he asked, deliberately avoiding eye contact as he slid the coffee pot slowly back into place.

"And you did what you had to do." Cas replied, furrowing his brow. He could see Dean was upset, but he didn't quite understand why. "They don't deserve your sympathy, Dean. They were going to torture Sam to death, and likely you as well."

"That's not what bothers me," Dean said slowly, after a long pause. _I must be crazy, talking about feelings with an a__n__gel_. But he continued nonetheless.

"It's not that they're dead - I would've lined them up against the wall and shot them one after the other," he continued, turning to face Castiel, and saw the angel raise his eyebrows slightly. Even Dean was surprised he'd actually said that out loud. "For payback, yeah, but also for insurance. They would've come for Sam again, and me too, and I wasn't about to let that happen. That's a no-brainer." Dean looked past Cas and over at Sam.

"Then why are you upset?"

Dean finally met Cas' eyes, and saw the angel genuinely didn't understand what the problem was. "Because Sam shouldn't have been there in the first place. He should've been with me instead of off on his own in some random town without any backup. Without anyone to look out for him." Dean confessed, quieter, and Cas finally understood what was going on: Dean was blaming himself for Sam's current condition. He thought he should have been there to protect his baby brother.

"I abandoned him, Cas." Dean sighed, and leaned against the kitchen bench with his arms crossed tight over his chest. "I left him alone, with no-one to watch his back. This is my fault." He looked at Sam, so still and pale, and took a shaky breath. "And I should've found a way to get to him sooner. Those bastards had him for a whole _day_, while I was sitting around in Kansas City with my thumb up my ass." Dean growled, closing his eyes as he rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He could feel the beginnings of a headache as a vague but increasing pressure about an inch behind his forehead. _Great - just what I need._

Cas just looked at him silently, not sure what to say. Dean was entirely unsurprised. "It's okay, Cas, I don't expect you to get it." He exhaled slowly, and went over to the table to retrieve the bag of ground coffee. As an afterthought, he shook a couple of Aspirin out of the bottle he'd bought and swallowed them dry before he went back over to the coffeemaker.

"From what I understand, you did everything you could." Cas offered, after a pause.

"You think?" Dean scoffed, almost slamming the bag of coffee down on the bench before he started tearing at the seal with his fingernails. _This is what I __get for talking about emotions with a freaking __angel__!_ He reached for his pocketknife again, silently cursing the irrationally strong adhesive that was holding his caffeine hit hostage in its foil prison.

"I think Sam couldn't have stayed with you, and you'd both likely be in worse trouble if he had. And what more could you have done to find Sam when those hunters actively concealed their location?" the angel went on, and Dean stopped what he was doing and looked up at him in surprise. That was a much more insightful response than he'd expected from Cas.

Dean looked over at Sam, chewing slightly on his bottom lip. He knew intellectually that Cas was right, but somehow that didn't make the older Winchester feel any less guilty. It was his job to look after Sam, and he'd screwed it up (again) - no matter how much his brain said it wasn't his fault, Dean's conscience screamed louder that he should have _found_ a way to protect his baby brother. He looked back down at the bag of coffee, frowning, and sliced the seal open with his knife.

Cas didn't stick around long - he'd barely been in the room a couple of minutes before the ongoing battle to avert the Apocalypse and save the world required his attention. He vanished with the customary rustle of feathers, leaving Dean alone with his freshly-opened bag of coffee.

"Always nice to see you, Cas," Dean said to no-one in particular, and left the coffee to go and sit on his bed. He leaned forward with a sigh, resting his elbows on his thighs, and just looked at his baby brother.

Apart from the wounds that littered his arms and chest and the bruising on his face, and now that he wasn't in pain and struggling to breathe, Sam looked comfortable in his deep, drug-induced sleep. Dean was still thinking of Sam's current condition as 'sleep', even though it was more of an induced coma. 'Sleep' was much less confronting.

"Well, Sammy, the doc says he's going to keep you out for the next few days - gives your body time to start healing, apparently," he said, trying to ignore the feeling that he was talking to himself, and also the slight echo of his words in the silent room. Dean wanted nothing more than for Sam to be awake and talking back, but Sam was definitely more comfortable the way he was - the second his little brother woke up, he was going to be in pain. _It's better this way,_ he told himself, and tried to believe it.

"I know, it's ridiculous, right? We haven't seen each other in months, so another couple of days shouldn't make that much of a difference." Dean tried to sound upbeat even though he knew these last couple of days had made one helluva _big_ difference. "I wanna know how you were doing, Sam. I mean, do you still want demon blood? Do you want to start hunting again?" Even as he was talking, Dean couldn't quite believe he'd let himself lose track of his baby brother so completely. Again.

When Sam left for Stanford, Dean hadn't made much of an effort to keep in contact. The odd phone call, maybe once every six months, but that was about all. Then, when he came to get Sam to help look for their dad, Dean had found a completely different person to the one that left almost two years earlier. It had actually taken a couple of days for Dean to get to know his little brother again, and at the time he'd sworn that he would never let that happen again.

_So much for that._

"Guess I should've called earlier, huh?" Dean forced out a strained chuckle, blinking back tears. A few days earlier, and Owen and Ray would've had two Winchesters to deal with.

_And Sam would be sitting next to you in the Impala, instead of laying on death's freaking doorstep._

"I shouldn't have left you alone, Sammy. I should've been there to keep an eye on my little brother. I would've noticed these guys hunting you and put them out of business before you even knew they existed." Dean closed his eyes and sighed.

No matter how much Bobby and Cas tried to convince him otherwise, Dean knew deep down that some of the blame for Sam's current condition was on him. If he'd paid closer attention, instead of just getting his news second-hand from Bobby… he could have saved his baby brother from the hell Owen and Ray had put him through. Dean had made some pretty big mistakes in his life, but this one was going to haunt him.

"I'm sorry, Sammy." Dean said softly, and rubbed his tired eyes with the back of his hand as he yawned. Those three hours of restless sleep on the hard gurney hadn't done anything to recharge his batteries, and he'd given up on the coffeemaker so he hadn't had his morning caffeine either.

He glanced over at the digital clock on his nightstand, and had to squint slightly with his sore, tired eyes to read the luminous numbers - just after 7am. As much as Dean hated to admit it, Bobby was right - if he was going to be of any use to Sam, he was going to have to get some sleep first. Sam wouldn't need any more medication for hours yet, so Dr. Sinclair had said, and Dean's bed was unexpectedly soft and comfortable...

Dean didn't even bother to get out of his clothes. He just put his phone on the nightstand, kicked off his boots and stretched out on the bed, taking one last look at Sam before he closed his eyes and fell almost immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

True to his word, Dr Sinclair came by each morning and night for the next two days to check on Sam, bringing fresh IV bags, nasogastric feeding mixture, and meds. Mostly it was antibiotics, sedatives and pain relief; but on Friday evening, he finally brought something to wake Sam up.

When Brad pulled up at the motel he found Dean sitting outside, well away from the fluorescent light above the door, smoking a cigarette. "Didn't think you were a smoker." he observed, getting a cardboard box out of the back seat of his Beamer.

"'m not." Dean replied, around the cigarette. He took one last, long drag and then ground the butt into the concrete with the toe of his boot.

"Uh huh." Brad arched an eyebrow as he looked pointedly at the small tobacco-stained mound, in amongst a couple of packs' worth of similar mounds.

"Cigarettes help with the stress, okay?" Dean sighed, rubbing his left hand over his face. "I can't drink, 'cause I've gotta stay sharp for Sam, so smoking's the next best thing."

"I'm not judging, Dean," Brad replied simply, and Dean blinked in surprise.

"Gotta say, doc, I was expecting a lecture." he admitted, and Dr. Sinclair smiled.

"When Sam's up and around, he'll lecture enough for the both of us. I'll leave it to him." He was pleased to see that got a little smile from Dean - it had been nearly three days since he'd brought Sam to Columbus on the brink of death, and the eldest Winchester looked more exhausted now than he had that night. He could do with a little levity.

"How_ is_ Sam?" Brad continued, following Dean as he turned and went back into the motel room. The doctor was careful not to disturb the salt line at the front door as he went inside.

"He hasn't moved a muscle, doc." Dean stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed over his chest, and watched as Dr. Sinclair checked Sam's vital signs and the chest tube site. He always hovered when Brad was checking on Sam, and couldn't help but wince whenever he saw the chest tube incision - it was by far the cleanest and neatest of Sam's wounds, but it looked like it would hurt like hell.

"He's looking okay," Brad assured Dean, checking the capillary refill in the hand on Sam's broken arm. "His heart rate, blood pressure and breathing are good, his temperature is almost normal, and there's virtually no fluid draining from his chest." He pulled a new bag of saline out of the cardboard box and began swapping it with Sam's nearly-empty one.

Dean could read between the lines - he understood what Brad was saying. "You're going to wake him up, aren't you?" he asked, uncertainly.

The doctor threw the empty IV bag into the trash and pulled his latex gloves off. "There's no reason to keep him sedated now. He's starting to get better."

Dean took a long, slow breath - he knew this should've been good news. He should be happy. But instead, there was a little flutter of uncertainty in his stomach.

Although Dean wanted nothing more than for his baby brother to wake up and tell him he was okay, there was a persistent little voice in the back of his mind that kept asking unsettling questions, such as _"What if he isn't okay?"_ and _"What if he doesn't wake up?"_ Things Dean really didn't want to consider and had been doing his best to put out of his mind. Now that the moment was here, Dean suddenly had an overwhelming urge to tell Brad to keep Sam unconscious.

Dr. Sinclair saw all that play out on Dean's face. "It's time to wake him up, Dean. We can't keep him sedated forever," he said gently, and Dean closed his eyes and took a slow breath. Deep down, he knew that.

_Sam's already been out for nearly three days, and you can't put it off any longer. Time to bite the bullet._

"Okay. Let's do it." He sighed, and went over to sit by Sam's left side.

Dr. Sinclair stood on the other side of the bed, by the IV stand, and took a syringe out of his familiar black padded case before he spoke. "I want you to be prepared, Dean - when he comes round, Sam's going to be disoriented and probably in some pain," he said, choosing his words carefully. Dean's head snapped up, and his eyes locked on the doctor - that was _not _what he'd wanted to hear.

Dr. Sinclair held one hand up, palm out, in a placating gesture before Dean could speak. "He's still got some morphine in his system, but after I reverse the sedation it's probably not going to be enough. I have a larger dose right here," he indicated another syringe on the nightstand, "but it'll put him straight back to sleep for a few hours, and I want him to be fully awake before I give it to him. Just to see how he is." Brad continued, still cherry-picking his words.

He was trying not to come right out and say it, but what he really meant was "I want to make sure Sam's brain isn't mush". Dean understood that perfectly, but didn't say anything. He just looked back down at Sam, frowning, and took a few deep breaths.

"When Sam comes around, you need to be right in his field of vision. If he sees a familiar face, he'll be less likely to panic and hurt himself." Dr. Sinclair added, turning off all the lights in the room except the lamp on the nightstand - Sam's eyes would be sensitive to light after three days' sedation.

Dean sat wordlessly on the bed and moved to take Sam's hand, but with the cast in the way, he had to settle for laying his hand on an uninjured section of forearm. Sam's skin was much cooler now the infection was under control.

"I'm going to give him the medication now. Are you ready?" Dr. Sinclair asked, and Dean nodded tersely. He wasn't, really, but waiting an extra couple of minutes wasn't going to change that.

"Just do it."

Brad injected the medication into Sam's IV before Dean could change his mind, then stood back silently and just watched.

It was half a minute before the drug started to take effect, and Dean took a sharp breath when he saw Sam's eyelids flutter. Then his whole body tensed and he let out a low moan of pain. His breathing suddenly became shallow little gasps as his broken ribs announced their presence, and his eyes flew open as the pain brought him suddenly and cruelly back to consciousness.

"Sam? You okay?" Dean asked, looking anxiously down at his little brother. His eyes locked on Dean's, and he blinked a couple of times.

"De..." Sam tried to speak, his voice a dry whisper, but he didn't have enough breath in his lungs to finish the word. His eyes, still on his big brother, were dull and bleary and ringed by dark circles that stood out against his pale skin. He looked confused and terrified.

"I'm here, Sammy." Dean gripped his arm a little tighter, wishing he could do something more. Sam shut his eyes as he tried to take a proper breath, and Dean saw little beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

Sam's eyes suddenly flew open again and started anxiously scanning the room - his brain had started ticking over, trying to work out where he was. He started to try and push himself up into a sitting position, but the explosion of pain throughout his body stopped him almost immediately. Sam collapsed back onto the bed, eyes squeezed shut and his mouth open in a little 'O' of shock, and Dean felt him start to tremble. The kid looked like he was in _agony_.

Sam opened his eyes again a few seconds later, looking desperately up at his big brother. Dean could see the carotid artery pulsing in his neck and his heart was obviously racing. "Hurts." Sam whispered, his voice strained. Dean felt his stomach tying itself into painful knots; it physically hurt him to see his baby brother in so much pain. He couldn't leave Sam like this.

Dean looked up at Dr. Sinclair, silently pleading with him to put Sam out again, and Sam turned his head slightly to follow his brother's line of sight. He furrowed his brow when he saw Brad, like his face was familiar but Sam couldn't quite place it. Then he saw the syringe in the doctor's hand and his face creased into a frown.

"Whassat?" he asked softly, a note of alarm in his voice. His eyes widened as he watched Brad remove the needle's plastic cap.

"It's okay, Sammy. It'll make you feel better." Dean told him soothingly, squeezing his arm. Sam grit his teeth and tried to reach out to stop the doctor injecting the contents of the syringe into his IV, but his face twisted in pain as he moved, and his arm dropped back onto his midsection. He let out a pained cry as the impact aggravated the fractures in his wrist and pelvis.

"It's all right, Sam," Dean gently put Sam's arm back by his side, then held up a hand to Brad. "Hold on a sec." The doctor frowned, but paused before he injected the morphine.

"Sam." Dean squeezed his brother's forearm, but Sam's eyes were still locked on the syringe. "Look at me, Sammy." Dean reached out and turned his head gently. Sam's gaze settled on his face, his bleary hazel eyes still wide, pupils dilated from a combination of the dark room and the pain he was obviously in.

"You're in a motel in Columbus, Missouri. We're safe here - no-one's coming after you. You're going to be okay." Dean said, firmly and clearly. Sam blinked, his foggy brain struggling to absorb that, but Dean felt some of the tension leave his body. Sam understood what he was saying, and it was definitely calming him down.

"I'm looking after you, Sammy. It's all right." he went on, and Sam nodded almost imperceptibly. "Okay." Dean took a deep breath. "You don't have to worry - that syringe has morphine in it. It's going to make you feel better." he said, and Sam gave another small nod. A look of relief flashed across his face, and he visibly relaxed now that he knew what was going on.

Brad took that as his cue, and injected the morphine into Sam's IV. The clear liquid ran down the tubing into the back of his hand, and his racing heart started pumping it towards his central nervous system. Dean kept his eyes on Sam's until they started to flutter closed, then his breathing got deeper and slower, and he drifted off to sleep again. Dean got up off the bed and studied him with a hand pressed to his mouth, his own heart hammering in his chest.

"He woke up." Dean said to himself, running the hand back over his hair as a small smile touched his lips. He could hardly believe it, but Sam had woken up. Opened his eyes and actually _spoken_. He was sore, yeah, but Sam was _in there_!

"Feeling better, are we?" Brad asked, a smile on his face too. Dean couldn't help but grin as he looked back down at Sam, sleeping peacefully again, then sat heavily back on his own bed.

"He's okay." Dean sighed, and the relief showed in his voice. Knowing his little brother was (more or less) all right was like a physical weight lifted off his shoulders.

He paused before he went on, watching Brad take Sam's pulse and blood pressure again. "I wondered if... you know, maybe they might have done some permanent damage." He chose his words carefully and didn't put too fine a point on it, but Brad understood what Dean meant. The same thought had crossed the doctor's mind: that maybe Owen and Ray had broken something inside Sam's head, physically or psychologically, and that Sam might not be Sam when he woke up. If he woke up at all.

"Only time will tell for sure, but honestly, your brother is doing as well as we could expect - better, even. I'm impressed he was able to carry on a conversation, such as it was," the doctor replied, gathering up his things and looking down at Sam once more before he started for the front door.

"He should come around again in a few hours, but he won't be so groggy and the morphine should keep the pain at bay for a while after that. I'm heading straight into work right now, but call me if there's any drama. Otherwise, I'll be back tomorrow morning." Dr. Sinclair said, opening the front door. He stepped over the salt line and out onto the concrete patio, fishing his keys out of his pocket.

"Thanks, doc." Dean told him, having been unable to find any other more appropriately mushy words.

"I'm glad he's okay." Brad smiled, genuinely pleased that Sam was on the road to recovery. Dean watched the doctor get into his BMW and pull out into the carpark, and for the first time, didn't feel a pang of anxiety as the Beamer's tail lights disappeared around the corner.

* * *

><p><em>Firstly: sorry about the three-month gap between Ch 8 and Ch 9! This was a 'stepping stone' chapter, and although I know E<em>_X__ACTLY what happens after this, that doesn't make the segue any easier. (I'm going to blame the delay on my muse - I swear, she went on holiday or something!)_

_I don't know if I'm thrilled to death with this chapter, but it's much better than it was a week ago and it's time to move on, dammit! Bring on the angst! :)_


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

The first rays of dawn on Saturday morning saw Dean sprawled out on the couch, fully clothed and fast asleep, with the TV still on and the remote resting on his chest.

When he sat down on the couch the night before to watch Letterman, Dean had intended to be awake and sitting right there beside his little brother when he woke up. And he tried - he really did. But despite his best efforts, the Sandman won the battle sometime during the overnight infomercials. Even after years of experimentation with sugar, caffeine and loud rock music, Dean had yet to work out how to repel that particular monster.

Now that Sam wasn't sedated anymore, Dean was giving his brother more morphine, more regularly - he'd even set an alarm on his phone wake him if he was asleep. That, on top of the minimal shuteye he'd had ever since he'd left Clinton, South Carolina on Sunday, meant that Dean was dead to the world when Sam started to stir.

Waking up after drug-induced unconsciousness isn't an instant thing. Much like coming around after a general anaesthetic, you don't open your eyes with your brain functioning at 100% and see everything around you in perfect clarity. It takes a little while for your brain to warm up.

When he came to, the first thing Sam noticed was that it was almost completely dark. The sun hadn't started to rise just yet, so the only illumination in the room came from a lamp to his right - which he knew only because he could see a hazy, vaguely lamp-shaped object out of the corner of his eye - and a dim, yellowish light that originated somewhere in the dimness to his left. He didn't know it, but the yellow glow was the motel's porch lights sneaking in through a gap in the curtains.

Sam blinked a few times, and despite the fact they were gritty and the lids felt like they weighed a ton, his eyes started picking out details in the room - fuzzy at first, then sharper as his vision started to clear. He discovered he was lying in a bed with a cheap laminate headboard, there was a mass-produced print on the wall to his left, and the paint on the ceiling above him was starting to flake and peel in places.

It that was all the information Sam needed to work out where he was - he'd stayed in enough motel rooms in his life to recognise one when he saw it. He also knew that this wasn't his room in Blue Springs (that had more peeling paint on the ceiling), but that's as far as his understanding went. He didn't have a clue where this anonymous motel room was, much less how he'd wound up there.

Just as he had the day before, Sam moved to push himself into a sitting position. He let out a dry, strangled cry as pain blossomed in his arms and chest, radiating in waves down through his fractured pelvis and into his legs. His head started spinning as soon as he lifted it off the pillow, and he immediately sank back down onto the bed as big orange dots pulsed in his vision in time with a sudden, pounding headache.

As he lay there, _very_ still and trying to breathe without aggravating what felt like a chest-ful of broken ribs, he heard movement beyond the foot of his bed. Clothes rustled against the cushions of a couch, then there was a _thud_ as Dean leapt to his feet and the remote fell to the floor, followed by a muttered obscenity as his shin smashed into a piece of furniture. He'd almost fallen over the coffee table in his rush to get to his little brother's side.

The next thing Sam knew Dean was standing over him. He felt a warm, strong hand press down on the front of his left shoulder and heard Dean's distant-sounding voice telling him to 'keep still, for God's sake' - as if he needed to be told. He couldn't move if he _wanted_ to.

The couple of minutes it took for his ribs to settle down and the spots to clear from his vision seemed like forever. There's nothing like an atomic bomb going off inside your bones to kick your brain into gear, and there were a few important questions Sam _really_ wanted answers to.

As soon as he could get enough breath to speak he tried to ask Dean where they were, but what came out of his mouth didn't sound anything like the sentence he'd intended to say. Actually, it didn't sound like words at all - his mouth was as dry as the Sahara, and it was like trying to talk through a mouthful of crackers.

"Here." Dean, guessing what the problem was, picked a glass of water up off the nightstand and held the straw to Sam's lips. He tried to take a mouthful, choked, and immediately began coughing and spluttering.

Dean swore and slammed the glass down on the nightstand, then carefully grabbed Sam around the shoulders and pulled him up into a semi-sitting position._ Nice one, Dean. Your brother finally wakes up, and you manage to almost drown him!_ He held Sam there, trying not to remember him gasping like that in the back seat of the Impala, and wishing he'd had some ice chips ready instead.

There was a very good reason for Sam to be gasping for breath - coughing _hurt_. It felt like there were strands of barbed wire wrapped around his ribs, and if he could've heard it, Dean would have been impressed at the string of curses and obscenities running through Sam's head for the fifteen seconds it took him to catch his breath.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asked, anxiously. He lowered Sam gently back down onto the mattress, trying not to aggravate the lattice of wounds across his back, and sat down on the edge of the armchair next to the bed. He'd realised very early on that a kitchen chair just wasn't going to cut it, so he'd dragged the comfortable, well-padded lounge chair across the room to his brother's bedside instead.

"Will be," Sam wheezed, slightly pale and his forehead beaded with sweat.

"Want some ice chips instead? We've got ice in the freezer." Dean offered, but Sam shook his head a little. He wanted _liquid_ water - it felt like he hadn't had a drop to drink for a week.

Dean didn't argue, and held the glass for Sam while he took a few smaller, more cautious sips - this time, _without_ almost choking to death. That small, simple action brought a smile to Sam's cracked lips - that water was _heaven_. Cool, clear Nirvana. He didn't even care that he could taste the rust in the motel pipes. The only problem was, now that his mouth wasn't bone dry, it felt like he hadn't picked up a toothbrush in days; his teeth were all furry with plaque and his tongue tasted like a dirty dishrag.

"Where are we?" Sam whispered, looking around the room a little. It was even more average than he first thought.

"Motel room in Columbia," Dean told him, putting the glass back on the nightstand. His heart rate was only just now coming down after Sam's coughing fit.

"Columbia, _Missouri_?" Sam frowned, surprised. That made no sense - what the hell was he doing in Columbia? Last thing he knew he was in Blue Springs, and that was halfway across the state-

"Are you in much pain?" Dean asked, interrupting Sam's train of thought. It wasn't a particularly fast train at the moment - his brain wasn't firing on all cylinders just yet.

"That's relative," Sam replied softly, with a little smile. As long as he kept still, he didn't feel too bad.

"I can't believe you're making jokes." Dean chuckled, even smiling a little himself.

Sam smiled wider, but it immediately turned into a wince as pain flared in his left cheek. He started to reach up to touch it with his right hand and winced again - Christ, _everything_ hurt: his hand, his arm, his shoulder, that whole side of his chest _and _his face.

Well, the left side hurt - his right cheek just felt strange, like something was stuck to it. Sam didn't know it, but that was the adhesive tape holding his NG tube in place. He wanted to reach up and scratch it, but the minor sticky annoyance was infinitely preferable to the pain that had come from every attempted movement so far. He figured, sensibly, that it was probably best to stay still for the time being.

Sam let his hand rest back on the bedspread and looked up at Dean, whose smile had been replaced by that worried expression again. "Stop moving, okay?" Dean _sounded_ worried as well, but Sam didn't quite understand why. _I'm pretty sore, but that's not the end of the world…_

A sudden wave of morphine-induced drowsiness washed over him, and he trailed off mid-thought as his eyes started to flutter closed.

"You okay there, Sam?" Dean's voice broke through the morphine fog and Sam blinked a couple of times, eyelids heavy. His big brother's face came back into focus, looming over him and looking anxious.

"'m okay. Just sleepy." Sam stifled a yawn - judging by recent events, yawning would hurt too.

Dean sat back in the chair, scrubbing a hand over his face the way he did when he was worried, and it was at this point that Sam noticed he looked absolutely exhausted. Not just been-out-on-a-hunt-all-night tired, but the kind of worn out you get when you haven't slept in _days_. His hair was a mess, there were dark circles under his tired, red eyes, and even a fading bruise over his left temple.

"You look like hell, Dean. What happened?" Sam asked, brow furrowed. Something was pretty badly wrong here. Whatever it was, it was serious, and had evidently only happened to him - Dean might look like ten miles of bad road, but he didn't appear to be as injured as Sam felt.

"You should go back to sleep, Sammy." Dean suggested, quite obviously trying to steer the conversation away from the reason he looked like one of the walking dead. Predictably, Sam ignored him.

"And while we're at it, why does it feel like I've been hit by a truck?" he went on, eyes narrowed slightly as he watched his older brother. Dean obviously didn't want to discuss it, and that sealed it for Sam - if Dean didn't want to talk about it, chances are it was something his little brother would definitely want to know.

Dean sighed - deep down, he'd known Sam wouldn't let him off that easy. He'd been running through this scenario in his mind since Wednesday morning: if Sam didn't remember what had happened to him, whether he had amnesia or had just blocked it out or whatever, how much should Dean tell him?

The short answer was that he didn't want to tell him anything at all. If he didn't remember what happened after Owen and Ray took him, Dean wasn't keen to remind Sam he'd been hanging like a side of beef from the rafters of some cold, isolated warehouse while two psychopaths with an axe to grind punished him for something he hadn't meant to do.

"What do you remember?" Dean had his best poker face on, so it didn't look like it, but he was praying like mad that maybe _this time_ they'd get lucky. Maybe Sam wouldn't remember his own little slice of Hell. Hey, the Universe had to cut them a break _sometime_… right?

Dean tried not to think about how many times the Universe had screwed them and withheld said breaks while he watched Sam, forehead creased with concentration, as he attempted to remember what had happened.

Sam could remember the last time he saw Dean, just outside River Pass. He remembered hitching a ride in a pickup to Blue Springs, his motel room, his job at Johnny Blue's - everything, up until a couple of days after Dean had called to say he was coming to town. Then everything went suddenly and maddeningly blank: it was like there was a barrier in his head, blocking out a chunk of his memory.

"Last thing I remember, I was at work," Sam said slowly, eyes unfocused as he stared off into the distance. He could see the scene at Johnny Blue's clearly in his mind. The bar was full of customers, laughing and talking and drinking - he could smell the limes he'd been cutting, and hear the altercation going on across the room.

He'd been behind the bar, and Kate had put a tray of empty beer bottles down in front of him… they'd talked, then he'd gone outside into the alley…

And there'd been two guys waiting for him.

Sam suddenly went pale, and Dean sat forward in his chair. "Sam? You okay?" he asked, concerned, but Sam went on like he hadn't spoken. His brain had shifted up a gear, and his memories were getting clearer. Things were coming back to him.

"I remember getting jumped in the alley behind the bar on Monday night. These two guys tied me up and put me in the back of a red pickup, then drove me to a warehouse... " He trailed off, a haunted look coming over his face. He glanced down at the dressings that covered his chest and arms, and a feeling of dread rolled over him in a cold, slimy wave.

"You've gotta tell me what happened." His voice was low and intense as he looked up at Dean with wide eyes. Dean frowned and bit his lip, obviously reluctant - he didn't want to put those thoughts into Sam's head. Hell, he wished he didn't have them in his _own_ head.

"Dean, I've just woken up in some random motel room somewhere feeling like I got run over by a truck, and you look like you haven't slept in days. I _need_ to know how this happened." Sam pressed, and Dean rubbed wearily at one tired eye, elbow resting on the arm of the chair. How the hell was he supposed to tell Sam that Owen and Ray had tried to torture him to death? And that they'd very nearly succeeded?

_It's not like he's going to let it go. Better just get it over with._

"Those two guys were hunters. Ray Beauchamp and Owen Wilkinson," he started, sitting back in the chair. Sam watched him intently, waiting.

He was doing a good job of hiding it, but he was terrified to hear whatever Dean was about to tell him. Ever since he'd opened the door for Lucifer, Sam couldn't help but imagine what other hunters might do if they ever found out - for a while, he'd even had nightmares about it. He was reasonably sure that when Dean was done talking, his subconscious would have all kinds of new horrors to play with at night.

"Owen and Ray were friends of Gordon Walker's. He told them about the thing with the Devil's Gate, so when they heard you let Lucifer out of his cage, they decided they needed to… put you down." Dean went on, reluctantly.

Sam's heart skipped a beat when he heard the name 'Gordon Walker'. He knew all too well what sort of nut jobs that psychopath had hung around with. "And they decided to hand out a little punishment first?" he asked, quietly.

"Pretty much, yeah."

Sam winced as he shifted his position slightly. He was starting to understand why he was so sore. "Anything serious?"

"You're not missing any limbs or anything, but…" Dean rubbed at the bridge of his nose, thinking carefully about his words. "They broke some ribs, and some bones in your hands and feet - left wrist, too. And they..." He paused again.

_How do you tell someone they're covered in knife wounds and burns that are going to leave awful scars?_

"They... look, you've got some really nasty cuts, and some burns too," he said eventually, and his mind flashed back to the clinic on Tuesday night. _'Some nasty cuts and burns' doesn't do it ju__s__tice._

Sam chewed on his bottom lip a little, thinking that over. "So I'll have some scars, huh?" he asked, and Dean nodded.

"You can talk to Brad about that when he comes over today. He offered to refer you to a plastic surgeon he knows." He knew that was the wrong thing to say as soon as the words left his lips.

Sam's heart rate skyrocketed, and his stomach twisted itself up into painful knots as he thought back to some of the horrible things he'd seen hunters do to monsters. What the hell had Owen and Ray done to _him_ if the doctor thought he might need plastic surgery down the line? He looked down at the cast, the splint, the various bandages, wounds, bruises…

_What the hell is under those dressings?_

"Um - so, what is all this?" he asked, clearing his throat and looking pointedly down at the tubes and bandages. "Have you been taking first aid courses I don't know about?" It looked like a pretty professional job and, while Dean was fairly adept with a penknife and dental floss, Sam couldn't see him doing work like this.

Dean narrowed his eyes slightly as he regarded his brother. He knew full well Sam was trying to change the subject, but he didn't call him on it. He understood what it was like to have someone pushing you to talk about things you didn't even want to _think_ about, so he cut Sam a break and let him get away with it.

_And let's face it, he learned it from you._

"Do you remember Brad Sinclair? The ER doc being haunted by a vengeful spirit last year?" As far as Dean was concerned, this topic was no better than the last one. But he'd had three days to think about how to answer this question without telling Sam he'd almost died - another conversation he _really_ didn't want to have - and he thought he'd figured it out.

Sam thought for a moment, then realisation dawned on his face as he remembered his brief return from the Land of Nod yesterday evening. "He was here earlier, right? With the syringe?" He didn't remember much from yesterday, but the image of that syringe was sure as hell stuck in his mind.

"Right." Dean was somewhat surprised Sam remembered _anything_ from their 60-second conversation - he'd barely been conscious. "Well, you were in pretty bad shape when I found you, and I called him as soon as I got you into the Impala. We met him at a clinic near here and he spent Tuesday night patching you up. He's even been coming by every day to check up on you." Dean said, as succinctly as he thought he could get away with.

"So that's where the cast and the stitches and all this other stuff came from?" Sam asked, and Dean nodded again. _So far, so good._

"And morphine, right?" Sam looked at his IV.

"Yeah. Is it not killing the pain?" Dean asked, concerned, and Sam smiled a little.

"It's doing a pretty good job, actually." His smile faltered as he briefly imagined what sorts of injuries the morphine might be camouflaging.

"So what then?"

Sam hesitated, considering his response before he answered. _No matter how I say this, he's probably going to think I have a head injury._

"Come on, Sam - spit it out." Dean leaned forward expectantly in his chair, elbows resting on his quads.

"Well... for one, the walls are waterfalls of lava," Sam said slowly, contemplating the wall to his left before his gaze settled back on Dean. "And you have little yellow birds flying all around you leaving glittering rainbow contrails."

At first Dean just stared at him, and Sam was sure he was going to call Dr. Sinclair and demand that he come and check on his baby brother. But Dean didn't run for the phone - instead, his face broke into a wide smile and he started_ laughing_.

"Morphine hallucinations, huh Sammy?" He grinned, and Sam gave a relieved little smile back.

"I guess so, yeah. I know they're not real, but Christ, they look like it." His eyes tracked non-existent canaries orbiting Dean's head and shoulders as he spoke. They were about the size of sparrows, with glossy sunflower-yellow feathers and bright blue eyes, and they were leaving sparkling multicoloured trails in the air behind them, chirping as they went. The whole effect was rather pretty, and Sam kind of wished Dean could see them.

"You know, I think your brain might be swimming in enough already, but how's the pain relief working? If you're too sore I've got plenty more Miss Emma right here." Dean pointed to a sealed plastic bag containing their supply of the clear liquid.

"I'm okay, Dean. Really." Sam assured him, and Dean quirked a sceptical eyebrow.

"Don't be a martyr, Sam." He didn't want his baby brother in any more pain than absolutely necessary, and he could see the way Sam was laying perfectly still and taking shallow breaths. He was obviously _not_ okay.

"All right, so maybe 'okay' isn't the right word," Sam conceded, "but it's bearable if I don't move. Plus, I don't want to spend the next two weeks in a drug-induced stupor," he explained, stifling another yawn. No matter how cool the hallucinations were, Sam didn't enjoy the drowsiness that came along with the morphine. He was finding it hard to keep his eyes open.

"Anyway, it feels like I've slept long enough." Sam ran his tongue over his furry teeth - he'd give anything for a toothbrush. And even more for a working arm to use it with. "How long have I been out, anyway?" he asked, conversationally. Dean hesitated for half a second, and even drugged to the eyeballs as he was, Sam caught it.

"Dean, what day is it?" he pressed, narrowing his eyes.

"Sam…" Dean sighed, but he knew it was too late now. "It's Saturday," he replied reluctantly, and it was Sam's turn to stare.

"_Saturday_?" he repeated, and paused to think that through. "I've been out for _four days_?"

"Well, it's Saturday _morning_, so it's really only three and a half…" Dean began, but trailed off when Sam fixed him with a glare more intense than he had any right to muster in his condition. "Yeah - I know." Dean held up both hands in a placating gesture. "Look, the doc wanted to keep you sedated for a few days and give your body a chance to start healing. You needed the rest, man."

"Now I know why my mouth tastes like the bottom of a trash can," Sam grumbled. _Christ - nearly four days. What the hell did they _do_ to me?_

"Look, I'm sorry I didn't get to you sooner, Sam." Dean didn't make eye contact with Sam as he spoke, his gaze downcast as he scratched at his forearm. Sam frowned a little, temporarily confused, but he knew how Dean's mind worked and it only took him a few seconds to realise what was going on. Well, part of it, anyway: Dean was blaming himself for Owen and Ray having him for so long. As usual, he was shouldering the responsibility for something completely out of his control.

"I was only gone for 24 hours, Dean. And you couldn't even have known I was missing until 12 hours after they took me," Sam pointed out, but Dean's forlorn expression didn't change. "It's okay, really. I know you pulled out all the stops." Sam insisted - he didn't even have to ask what Dean had been doing all day Tuesday. He knew his big brother must have moved Heaven and Earth to get to him - Dean _always_ moved Heaven and Earth for Sammy. This time, it had just taken a little while.

That should have made Dean feel better, but the total faith Sam had in him made him want to cry. And, if he was honest, it wasn't just the delay in finding Sam that was eating at him.

"I never should've left you alone in the first place. If I'd been there with you…" he trailed off, sitting back in his chair with a frustrated sigh, but Sam knew what he was going to say: _If I'd been there with you, this never would've happened._

He looked over at Dean, who was staring into space as he absently rubbed at his bruised temple. He was blaming himself not just for taking so long to get to his baby brother, but also for letting Sam go off on his own all those months ago in Colorado.

"Dean, this isn't your fault. I needed to go - I had to take a break. If I'd stayed, I'd have gotten one or both of us killed," Sam told him, but Dean just sniffed. He appreciated the sentiment, but the words didn't make it hurt any less.

"It's my job to look after you, Sam. I'm supposed to keep you safe - like from raving psychopaths that want to kill you!"

Sam almost smiled at that. "I'm a big boy, Dean - I don't need 24-hour supervision. Owen and Ray were so organised and hell-bent on their plan that they'd have found a way to get me, whether I was with you or not." Sam didn't need to add that Ray probably would have just shot Dean and then continued on his merry way. There was no doubt in his mind that, had he been there, Owen and Ray would only ever have been able to take him over Dean's dead body.

Dean looked up at Sam, brow furrowed slightly. "How _did_ they get you, Sammy?" He'd been wondering about that pretty much ever since he discovered Sam was gone. There had been two of those bastards, yeah, but Sam had dozens of pounds and a handful of inches on both of them, and no way would he have gone quietly. When he'd broken into the warehouse, Dean had fully expected to see battle scars on the guys that had managed to subdue and kidnap his baby brother.

"I didn't even get five steps into the alley." Sam began, stifling yet another yawn. "By the time I knew he was there, Ray already had his revolver trained on me. Next thing I know, Owen comes up behind me and injects something into my neck. I went down pretty quick after that." Sam couldn't help but shudder a little as he remembered Ray's revolver, with the business end of the barrel only inches from his face. _Why couldn't I have forgotten that too?_

Dean could see Sam didn't like thinking about it, but for him the scariest part was the fact that if Owen and Ray _hadn't_ wanted to hand out a little punishment, they might have just shot Sam then and there in the alley behind Johnny Blue's. The thought of rolling into town and finding his baby brother in the morgue scared the hell out of him.

_When did this situation get so messed up that 24 hours of torture is the best-case scenario...?_

"So, did your vacation help any?" Dean asked, in an effort to change the subject. Sam just looked at him blankly for a second.

"What, do I still want demon blood?" he asked, and Dean nodded. Sam shifted slightly in the bed, wincing as his broken ribs stabbed him, considering his answer.

"Honestly, I think I'll always want it," he said slowly, and Dean blinked.

"That wasn't exactly what I was hoping to hear, you know."

"What do you want me to say, Dean? That time heals everything and I can look at demon blood without remembering the thrill and the power it gave me?" Sam asked, wearily. "I'll _always_ remember that. But it's not all I think about anymore. The... _thirst_... isn't constant like it used to be. I don't _want_ to go back down that road." He'd done some real soul-searching on this subject while he'd been in Blue Springs, but never had the opportunity to discuss it before. It was actually kind of nice to say the words out loud.

"And if it could, say, stop Lucifer?" Dean asked, raising his eyebrows a little. This was good - Sam was being honest with him, and for once the news wasn't terrible. The kid had made progress while he'd been on his own, and Dean was actually kind of impressed.

"I know nothing good is going to come out of me using those abilities. I may have a saved a few people, but overall… it's only ever made things worse." Sam sighed and pursed his lips. "I killed Lilith and started the Apocalypse. The angels threatened to smite me after I used my abilities on Samhain. And you know what I had to do before I could take Alastair." Sam let out a short laugh, but there was no mirth in it. The thought of drinking Ruby's blood like a freaking _vampire_… it made him feel sick.

"I let Ruby get one over on me, Dean. The demon blood drove a wedge between us and I shouldn't have let it. I should've known nothing good was going to come from it, and _this_," he motioned to the various bandages and dressings that covered his body, "is just the latest consequence of those stupid decisions." Tears welled up in Sam's eyes as he spoke, not quite able to meet his brother's gaze. "If this is anybody's fault, it's mine," he added, softly. There was a little catch in his voice that broke Dean's heart.

"It's not your fault they tried to torture you to death, Sam," Dean told him, just as quietly, and Sam tried to blink back the tears. The splint and cast on his arms made it hard to wipe them away.

"They did it because I let Lucifer out. I'd say that's on me."

No matter how much Dean would like to be able to say otherwise, he knew it was true. Sam _had_ set Lucifer free, whether he'd meant to or not, and that had cost a more than a few hunters their lives. Opening the Cage would put Sam on a _lot_ of hunters' hit lists, and just the thought that there might be more raving lunatics out there with a bone to pick made Dean's chest tighten. But, as he looked at Sam lying hurt and miserable in the motel bed, he just couldn't bring himself to point that out. The kid had suffered enough for one day.

Dean took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and dealt with this complex emotional situation the only way he knew how. He looked at Sam, a forced and slightly shaky little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"You still look like death warmed up. You should go back to sleep," he advised, and Sam rolled his eyes.

_Typical Dean - making jokes to cover the pain._ Sam didn't mind, though - the mood desperately needed lightening, and he was grateful for the effort at least. Actually, he was impressed Dean had lasted this long without making a smartass comment of some kind.

"Have you seen yourself lately, Dean? People in glass houses shouldn't throw stones," he retorted, but Dean just smiled at him. It was nice to hear Sam throw a smartass comment straight back - he'd actually kind of missed it.

"That was an insult, you know." Sam pointed out, arching his right eyebrow slightly.

"I know." Dean replied, still smiling as he got up to put on some coffee. Sam could call him whatever took his fancy; Dean was just glad he was still here to do it.

* * *

><p><em>Firstly, thanks to my mate Cori for giving me the idea for the morphine hallucinations - ever<em>_y__thing Sam saw came from her first-hand experience. That conversation was an eye-opener...!_

_Secondly, I owe my muse a headslap for giving me so much Goddamn __TALKING__! I don't mind the finished product - I _do_ enjoy some angst! - and the talking had to be done, so I can only hope it hasn't put you all to sleep or anything. ;) Don't forget to review and let me know!_


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

That evening, Dean was waiting outside when Dr. Sinclair pulled into the carpark. He told Sam he was just getting a little fresh air, so his little brother wouldn't ask him _why_ he was loitering at their front door in the growing dark, but that Dean's outdoor sojourn coincided with the doctor's arrival was no coincidence.

"Not smoking today?" Brad asked, climbing out of the car. He pulled a black bag from the back seat, then the Beamer chirped once and the indicators flashed as he locked it remotely.

"Nah. Sam's awake, and if he knew I was smoking he might actually get out of bed and punch me." Dean smiled, and Brad chuckled. He walked up to the front door and moved to step past Dean and open it, but the older Winchester caught his arm and stopped him.

"Look, before you see Sam, there's something we gotta talk about," Dean said, keeping his voice low and looking Dr. Sinclair directly in the eye. His expression made it clear he wasn't kidding around. "Sam's going to ask you some stuff. About his injuries, but also what you know about what happened to him."

"I figured he would," Dr Sinclair replied, slowly. He'd been expecting that, and he couldn't quite see what the problem was.

"Yeah…" Dean sighed, releasing his arm. _Now, how do I put this delicately?_

"Well, thing is, I don't want you to tell him."

Brad couldn't hide his surprise. "You're saying you don't want me to be completely honest with Sam?" he repeated, not quite sure he understood.

"That's what I'm saying, yeah."

Brad tensed, not quite sure how to respond to that. His ethics told him he had to be completely open with the younger Winchester; Sam was his patient, and it wasn't his doctor's job to decide what he should and shouldn't know about his own condition. And it wasn't his brother's job either, for that matter.

Dean could immediately see the doctor was uncomfortable with the idea and he hurried to clarify. "Look, I'm not saying you can't tell him about his injuries - give him all the detail you want about which bones are broken and how long the burns will take to heal and all that. He wants to know, but I don't know enough to tell him."

Dean didn't want Brad to lie outright to Sam about how bad his injuries were, and he was pretty sure he couldn't ever have made the doctor agree not to tell him about the near-death experience that had resulted in the chest tube. Dean didn't enjoy thinking about it, but he could deal. It was just the… _other_ stuff.

"I just don't want you to tell him anything that happened before we left Odessa," he said, pointedly, and after a second understanding dawned on Brad's face.

"You don't want Sam to know what you had to do to get him out," he said, his voice almost a whisper.

Dean nodded. "I'll tell him eventually." _Probably._ He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. "I just don't wanna do it _now_. Not while he's dealing with all this other crap."

Dr. Sinclair studied Dean for a long moment, thinking that over. "All right. I'll keep your secret, Dean, but you have to tell him sometime. You can't keep it bottled up forever," he replied, eventually, and Dean let out a sigh of relief.

"Thanks, doc." He turned and opened the door, leading Dr. Sinclair inside. Brad stopped before he went two steps, staring at Sam in amazement.

Sam was sitting up in his bed, resting against a few pillows and reading a newspaper. He looked inordinately well-rested - probably because, after the exertion of his extended conversation with Dean that morning, he had slept away most of the day. He'd wanted to spend some time among the living, and catch up with Dean - it had been months and he missed his big brother - but the amount of morphine he needed to stay even relatively comfortable meant he spent most of his time asleep or drowsy. So while Dean was outside he decided to make hay while the sun was shining, metaphorically speaking, and was catching up on what had been happening in the real world.

Sam saw the surprised look on Brad's face, and smiled. "Don't worry, I'll lay back down and rest in a minute." He handed the newspaper to Dean, who folded it and set it on his nightstand.

"Not at all, Sam - it's nice to see you back amongst the living. How are you feeling?" Dr. Sinclair asked, putting his bag down on Dean's bed and pulling out his stethoscope. He was pleased to see Sam was feeling better, but he hadn't expected him to do anything but lay flat in bed for a few days at least.

"I wouldn't call this a high point, but I think it's getting better," Sam replied, getting a little smile from Brad. He'd always liked Sam's dry sense of humour.

"I must say, you're looking much better than the last time I saw you." The doctor stifled a yawn and rubbed at his eyes. They were bleary and bloodshot, and he looked exhausted.

"Want a caffeine hit while you're here, doc?" Dean offered, and Brad nodded gratefully.

"I'd kill for a decent cup of coffee. The coffeemaker in the ER is on the fritz, and there is literally _no_ other decent coffee to be had in the entire building." He yawned again. "I noticed a little diner down the street," he suggested hopefully, but Dean wrinkled his nose.

"Don't do that to yourself. I'd sooner feed you battery acid." Dean went over to their kitchenette and poured a cup of strong black coffee from the coffeemaker. He'd tried the stuff from Mac's Diner, and the motel coffeemaker - old and decrepit as it was - made a far superior cup of joe. Susie the waitress might be cute, but she knew zero about making coffee. If Dean thought he might get something more out of her, then fine, he could put up with a cup of stale dishwater - but that wasn't going to happen with his baby brother laid up in bed, and life's just too short to drink coffee that bad. And he certainly wasn't about to give it to the guy responsible for yanking Sam back from the jaws of death.

"The beans come from 7-Eleven, but it does the job." Dean handed the doctor his coffee, in one of those thick-walled, hard-wearing white ceramic cups that are ubiquitous in motels and diners.

"Thanks." Brad took it, and smiled as he savoured the aroma.

"Any chance I could get a cup of that?" Sam asked hopefully, watching as Dr. Sinclair took a mouthful of caffeinated heaven and set the cup down on his nightstand. His mouth watered every time Dean turned the damn coffeemaker on, but his big brother had steadfastly refused to give him any until the doctor explicitly said he could have it.

Brad thought for a second before he replied, considering his answer. "One a day," he conceded. "You don't want to keep yourself awake, and you need to keep your blood pressure down. Okay?" he said, and Sam nodded. He could cope with that.

"You know what else would be awesome? Some real food," Sam went on, and Brad smiled.

"Not a fan of the NG tube?" he asked, and Sam grimaced.

"If I could use my hands, doc, it'd be gone already," he said, without a trace of a joke.

"Well, I guess we'll start with that then." Brad retrieved a pair of latex gloves from his bag, and Dean took that as his cue to leave.

"I don't particularly want to see this I don't think, so I'm just going to leave you in the doctor's capable hands, Sammy." Dean grabbed his car keys off the bench, then went over to his bedside drawer and pulled out the sawed-off, double-barrel shotgun that they usually employed to fire rock salt. He released the lock and broke the gun, checking the chambers - now loaded with very real double-aught steel buckshot - then snapped it shut again and placed it next to Dr. Sinclair's coffee cup.

The doctor looked at the gun, eyes wide, but Sam just gave Dean a single nod of understanding. Sometimes, he could almost forget there was probably a posse of homicidal hunters actively hounding them.

"You ever use one of those before, doc?" Dean asked matter-of-factly, and Brad just blinked at him.

"Um - a couple of times, when I was teenager on my uncle's farm," he replied, somewhat bewildered.

"I'll talk him through it." Sam assured Dean, who nodded.

"So I guess you want a bowl of rabbit food, then?" he asked teasingly, and Sam smiled.

"A salad would be good, yeah," he replied, and Dean chuckled as he headed for the front door.

The doctor just looked from one Winchester to the other, amazed at how relaxed they were in the face of the kind of danger one needed a shotgun to deal with. He had been distracted with the imminent death of the younger Winchester when Dean had dragged his arsenal inside the clinic that Tuesday night. But now, as Brad sat in their motel room with the door and windows locked, curtains drawn and a shotgun in front of him, it suddenly hit home why Dean had been reluctant to involve him at all. He tried not to flinch when Dean pulled the door shut behind him.

After he made thoroughly sure the door was locked, Dean made a beeline for the Impala and sank gratefully into her front seat. "I know, baby, it's been too long," he said, patting the dash a couple of times before he turned the key in the ignition. "I'm sorry I neglected you, but we're gonna go and stretch your legs a little." A satisfied smile spread across his face when the V8 engine roared to life. He missed that throaty growl.

He took the Impala for a spin down the road to Mac's Diner, under cover of darkness, to get some 'real food'. Well, Dean was going to have real food - a cheeseburger - but he'd get Sam his salad, too. For once, Dean didn't mind catering to his little brother's salad fetish: he took it as proof that Owen and Ray hadn't done any real psychological damage. And, fortunately for all concerned, Susie's food was much better than her coffee.

When Dean got back to the motel 20 minutes later, white paper bags in hand, Sam was still sitting up against his mountain of pillows and Dr. Sinclair was just packing up his bag. As much as he would have loved to take a drive around the block - he was _dying_ for a change of scenery - Dean didn't take the scenic route back from the diner. He hadn't seen any trace of Owen and Ray's buddies as yet, but that didn't mean they weren't around and he wasn't about to tempt fate.

"So how's the patient?" Dean asked, putting dinner on the kitchen table.

"Sam's doing well." Dr. Sinclair reported, checking his watch and pulling his keys out of his pocket. "His fever's gone, his wounds are healing nicely, and as you can see his nasogastric tube and chest tube have been removed. I disconnected the saline IV, but the port has to stay in the back of his hand for medication. Just make sure he drinks plenty of fluids," he said, brow creased in concentration and checking things off on his fingers as he spoke.

"Somewhere you need to be, doc?" Dean asked, eyebrows raised, and Brad sighed wearily.

"There's something of an emergency at the hospital, so I can't hang around," he replied apologetically, "and Sam is doing well enough that I think I can start visiting once a day, so I won't be back until tomorrow evening." He pulled his sleeve back and checked his watch again. "If you have any questions or problems, call me." he added, before saying a quick goodbye and heading off back to the hospital. Dean locked the door behind him, neatening the salt line with the toe of his boot as he did.

"Do you think I scared him with the shotgun?" Dean looked questioningly over at his little brother.

"Honestly? Yeah." Sam's tone was light, and Dean was pleased to see he looked much more comfortable without so many tubes attached. "But his pager really did go off," he added, and Dean grinned.

"Civilians." He tsked, shaking his head, and started unpacking dinner.

"Okay, Sammy - 'real food', as requested." Dean picked up a wooden breakfast tray off the kitchen bench - the kind with the little legs - and put it over Sam's lap, then took the lid off the salad and set it down on the tray. Sam wordlessly held out his semi-healed right hand, and Dean quirked an eyebrow at him.

"How did you think I was going to eat it, then?" Sam looked back pointedly, and Dean gave him the flimsy three-tined plastic fork. If he was honest, Dean hadn't actually thought that far ahead.

Sam gripped the fork as tightly as he could and, frowning in concentration, started to spear his own Caesar salad one or two leaves at a time. It was going to take him forever at this rate.

"Sure you don't want a hand?" Dean asked, but Sam shook his head.

"I can do it."

Dean could understand why he wanted to do it on his own - there wasn't much else he could do for himself right now, so he decided Sam could have this one. Dean left him to his salad and went over to his cheeseburger and fries at the kitchen table.

They were silent for a few minutes, each concentrating on dinner. Dean waited until he'd finished his burger before he spoke.

"So what did you and the doc talk about?" he asked conversationally, trying to wheedle some info out of Sam without it looking like that's what he was doing.

"You know." Sam said simply, spearing a couple more lettuce leaves before he looked up. He still had half the salad to go. "You're supposed to _tell_ someone if they nearly died, Dean." His voice was even, but full of tension. All his good humour had apparently evaporated.

Dean sighed, picking at his fries. Suddenly, he didn't feel like eating. "I'm sorry, Sam, but I didn't think that was the first thing you needed to hear when you woke up. I was _going_ to tell you, but you needed a few days R&R. You needed to get some strength back."

"I had _four__ days_ R&R. How about you fill me in?" Sam suggested, and his tone of voice made it plain that it was anything but a suggestion. His eyes were hard when Dean looked up at him.

_This wasn't how __I__ wanted to have this conversation._

Honestly, Dean didn't want to have it at _all_, but he definitely didn't want it to start this way. It wasn't ideal to start a conversation as tense as this one promised to be when things were already about to boil over, and Sam didn't even really know what he was asking. He didn't understand how thoroughly the situation had gone to hell, and the things his big brother had to do to get them out of it in one piece, more or less.

_Which is why he needs to ask, I guess._

Dean left the remains of his meal on the table, and went over to sit in the chair by his little brother's bed. "What do you wanna know?" he asked quietly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his quads, hands clasped in the empty air between his knees.

"Maybe we could start with this near-death experience of mine?" Sam looked at Dean expectantly.

Dean took a breath and exhaled slowly. God, even the _memory_ made his chest tighten up.

_Dammit, Dean, why didn't you get some whisky while you were out?_

"Okay." Dean stopped for a second to consider his words. "Well, first of all, it took me a while to find you: I mean, I didn't get to the warehouse until late Tuesday night. When I got inside and-" He paused again, trying to come up with a better phrase than 'found you hanging from the rafters'.

Sam waited silently, his forehead creasing into a frown. He'd intended to force every scrap of information he could out of Dean, but his anger was starting to ebb in the face of the haunted look in his big brother's eyes.

"When I found you in Odessa… you weren't in good shape, man." Dean went on, eventually. "You weren't breathing all that well to begin with, and by the time we got into Columbia half an hour later, you were really struggling. I thought you were going to stop breathing within _sight_ of the freaking clinic, man!" Dean shivered, remembering his terrified baby brother fighting for every breath. He looked at Sam for a response, but although his expression had softened, he stayed quiet and waited for Dean to continue.

"Brad was waiting for us at the clinic, and after we got you inside and into a bed I went out to the car to get some firepower in case there was someone tracking us. When I came back, you'd stopped breathing and your lips were turning blue." Dean didn't have to add _and it scared the hell out of me_. He sat back in the chair and rubbed at his forehead with one hand.

"I know they broke some of my ribs, but Christ..." Sam chewed a little on his chapped lower lip, taking that in. He had no idea it was so touch-and-go, and that was... well, that was_ terrifying_.

While he had initially been angry at Dean for not telling him the whole story, Sam was starting to understand his brother's reluctance. One look at the anguished expression on his face made it clear he didn't even like _thinking_ about it.

"You really don't remember any of this?" Dean asked, studying him.

Sam shook his head. "It's a total blank. Everything after they dumped me onto the floor of the warehouse. I didn't think I hit my head that hard, but obviously something got broken." He looked back at Dean, eyes a little wide.

The eldest Winchester didn't know whether to be pleased Sam didn't remember, or worried that he couldn't. "You were pretty out of it when I found you," Dean offered eventually, by way of explanation.

It didn't explain anything, really, but of the two of them Sam was the only one that could have filled in the blank. But there were a few other things Sam wanted to know besides, and those questions Dean _could_ answer.

Sam sighed, and thought seriously about whether he really wanted to know. Dean's aversion to discussing this whole situation wasn't lost on him, and if the worst part was indeed his baby brother's near-death experience, then Dean should be looking better now that was over.

He _wasn't_ looking better, though. He was trying to seem nonchalant, but he was sitting very still, drumming his fingers absently on the arm of the chair, and he looked tense and drawn. Sam didn't want to make him relive whatever was bothering him so much, but he couldn't not know. And if it was as big a deal as Dean was making it seem, then he should probably get it off his chest anyway.

"Yeah. Which brings me to my next point," he said, and Dean's stomach dropped.

_Please don't ask me how I got you out. Please don't ask me how I got you out__._

"I asked Dr. Sinclair how you found me and got me out of the warehouse, but he said he didn't know the whole story and it wasn't up to him to tell me. So you're going to."

_Shit__._ Dean winced and gave his little brother a pleading look, but Sam just stared right back at him. He was a little pale, but Dean recognised that stubborn look. He wasn't going to let this go.

So, Dean told him about getting into Blue Springs, finding out he was missing and putting the pieces together - with Kate's help - and going to Mel. He left out the part about his roadside panic attack, though. Sam sat quietly, taking it all in, until Dean got to the part where he arrived on Mel's front doorstep.

"So - a psychic witch." He raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"A psychic witch." Dean confirmed.

"Huh. I never knew Pam had a cousin."

Dean smiled a little at that. He was telling a story about psychic witches and locator spells, and Sam took exception to the fact he didn't know Pamela had a cousin.

"Neither did I. Bobby sent me to her because when the Witnesses rose, apparently they broke the special tripod thing he used to find Lilith." Dean explained. "He was very irritated about it, too," he added, getting a very small smile from his brother.

"Anyway, I had to go and see her in Kansas City - she needed something that belonged to you so she could get a lock, so I had to courier a book of yours up there. That's what took so Goddamn long." His expression darkened as he remembered waiting in Mel's parlour for seven long hours while she broke through Owen and Ray's masking spell.

"Which one?" Sam asked, wondering why he hadn't noticed he was missing a book; it wasn't like he had a huge collection. Dean just shrugged.

"I dunno, man. Found it under the front seat a few weeks back - the cover was orange and black, and it might have had a tree on it." He really didn't care which book he'd taken to Mel, just that it was Sam's. He knew it was Sam's because Dean didn't actually own a novel; no reading material without pictures of some kind, actually.

"Anyway, Mel tried Ruby's burning-the-map trick, but those mongrels had set up a masking spell and the whole map just went up in flames. It took her until dark to get around it, but she told me I should look for a blue warehouse with a picture of a hawk on it, somewhere around Orchard Road. I took off for Odessa just after 7:30 on Tuesday night."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "And that _worked_?"

"I know, I was surprised too. Turned out the place used to belong to a company called Hawkins Glass - their sign had a hawk on it," Dean told him, and Sam let out a low whistle.

"Wow. Mel's got some juice." He was actually kind of impressed.

"You don't have to tell me." Dean smiled, remembering the way Mel had read his thoughts just as easily as if he'd spoken them out loud.

"Right. So, you're at the warehouse..." Sam said pointedly, trying to get Dean back on track.

Dean hesitated before he continued, and Sam's heart fluttered a little. He figured whatever had Dean tied up in knots had happened in the warehouse, and the way he got suddenly pale and stopped making eye contact confirmed it.

"Well, I broke in and found the file room where they were keeping you." Dean omitted the fact it was Sam's screams that had led him there, and a bitter little smile touched the corners of his mouth as he told Sam about 'questioning' Ray - a little bit of payback for turning his baby brother's life into a living hell. As far as Dean was concerned, it served the bastard right. Sam, however, didn't share his enthusiasm.

"He's gonna be _pissed_, Dean," Sam said softly, eyes widening. He was more than a little surprised to hear that Dean had actually _shot_ the guy, and Sam's impression of Ray told him he wouldn't just let something like that slide. He was going to want revenge.

In his mind's eye, Sam could _see_ Ray's enormous revolver, looming only inches from his face. He could make out the rifling that snaked around the inside of the barrel, and smell the distinctive scent of gun oil… he didn't realise it, but his hands had started shaking.

Dean didn't see it either. He'd dropped his head and started playing with a loose thread in the bedspread, lips pursed as he thought about how to respond.

It wasn't that he felt overly guilty for shooting the guy in cold blood. Dean knew he should probably feel more remorse than this, but he just _didn't_ - Ray sure as hell had it coming. And besides, Dean had plenty of other stuff to lose sleep over before he got down to Ray Beauchamp. The bastard would just have to get in line.

What Dean was really afraid of was the look of sadness and disappointment in Sam's eyes when he found out his big brother had committed a triple homicide. Then, when he realised Dean had done it all for him and started blaming himself for putting Dean in that situation.

"He won't be coming after us, Sam."

"How can you be sure?" Sam's voice was tight, and Dean glanced up at his confused baby brother.

"Because as soon as he told me what I wanted to know I shot him between the eyes."

Dean couldn't bring himself to look Sam in the face, so he looked straight back down at the bedspread instead, concentrating intently on that loose thread. Sam opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again and just stared at Dean, bewildered.

Sam was under no illusions about his big brother's temper; he figured Dean must've been _furious_ when he found out what Owen and Ray had done, and he knew from experience how far he would go for family. But he'd never really expected Dean to _kill_ them... had he?

Sam looked at Dean, still focused on that thread as he continued the story. He saw Dean's lips moving, but didn't hear what he was saying. His mind was still processing the revelation that he shot Ray in cold blood.

_What did you expect him to do, Sam? Those guys almost tortured you to death - you had to know how Dean was going to react to that. There's a reason they tried to hide behind that masking spell. They _knew_ what would happen if Dean found them, and so did you. Don't be naïve._

It took Sam a few seconds to recover and tune back into Dean's voice, but he had a sick little feeling in the pit of his stomach that he already knew how it would end.

"- and I was about to unlock the handcuffs when Owen jumped me from behind. It was a pretty even fight, and I knew if he won he'd go straight for you..." Dean trailed off, closing his eyes. "I knew I couldn't let him get away, and I had him pinned at the time, so... I broke his neck."

He heard Sam draw a sharp, shocked breath, but didn't look up. He remembered the muffled _crack_ of Owen's neck and how his body had gone so instantly and completely limp, and felt vaguely nauseated.

He'd had time to think about it, and as near as he could figure, killing Owen got such a visceral reaction because he did it with his bare hands. He also had a feeling that he was going to have nightmares about it for a good long while, even though Owen had thoroughly deserved it. Dean wasn't a sociopath; he couldn't take someone's life up-close and personal like that without feeling _something_. No matter how much he might like to be numb.

Sam saw the pain on Dean's face, and opened his mouth to say he was sorry - the one thing his brother didn't want to hear. Now that he'd had a minute to think it over, Sam wasn't really surprised that Dean had killed Owen and Ray. That's how he was thinking of it - 'killed', not 'murdered'; Sam couldn't quite cope with the thought that he was the reason Dean had _murdered_ two people.

Dean noticed Sam start to speak, but cut him off. His voice was rough as he continued the story. "I went and got the car and got you into the back seat." He paused for a second to clear his throat, remembering the way Sam had visibly relaxed when he realised he was safe. "I piled the bodies on a stack of wooden crates, ready to burn them, and I was in the file room getting Owen when I heard someone walking around in the warehouse."

"There were _three_ of them?" Sam asked incredulously, apology forgotten. This was starting to sound like the plot of a horror movie.

"Yeah." Dean said softly. He'd give _anything_ not to have to tell Sam he'd been betrayed by someone he thought was a friend. Actually, he'd seriously considered omitting this detail entirely.

"I'm sorry, Sammy. The third person was Kate."

Sam was quiet for a long moment, but when he spoke the hurt showed in his voice. "Is she... I mean, did you…?" He couldn't quite bring himself to ask the question: '_did you shoot her?_'

"She tried to pull a gun on me," Dean replied apologetically, and Sam sucked in a long, shaky breath. It was obvious he cared about Kate, and that made Dean feel about a thousand times worse. And he wasn't even done breaking his baby brother's heart yet.

"Turns out she was Ray's niece. She was in Blue Springs on a hunt when you fell right into her lap, and she called in the dogs. She did the masking ritual for them, too."

Sam stared at Dean, blinking back tears. "We went out for dinner last week. She seemed so nice - and _normal_."

Before he met Ruby and everything went to Hell in a handbasket, Dean used to tease Sam about his love life. In fact, he'd good-naturedly described his baby brother's relationship history as the "Sleep With Sam Winchester and Die Curse".

_Seems you don't even have to sleep with them anymore,_ Sam thought bitterly.

"Why do you think she gave you a lead?" he asked, wincing as he wiped at his eyes with his right hand, trying to get his head around the fact she'd been playing him the whole time. God, she must've had ice water in her veins, the way she innocently sent him running headlong into her uncle's trap…

"I've been wondering the same thing. Probably should have asked her about that before…" Dean stopped himself, and let the sentence trail off. _Before I shot her in the chest._ He could see Sam was hurting, and he didn't want to add to it_. _Not any more than he already had, anyway.

"She is -" Sam paused, grimacing, "_was_, a smart girl. There were heaps of people around us when she told me there were guys looking for me; even if they'd never actually come into the bar and asked around, maybe she figured someone would eventually tell you the real story and blow her cover."

That sounded plausible enough to Dean, so he stoped piling salt onto that particular wound and finished the story. "Anyway, when I was sure no-one else was going to jump out of the shadows and try and kill us, I burned all the bodies and that red pickup and took off. Called Dr. Sinclair from the road."

Dean didn't look at Sam after he finished talking, and there was a long moment of silence before his little brother spoke.

"Look, Dean, I want to say thankyou."

Dean shrugged. "It was nothing. You'd've done the same for me."

"You killed three people to save me. That's not nothing." Sam could see Dean didn't want to make a big deal out of that, or probably even mention it ever again, but he had to say the words.

"Sam, they weren't going to let either of us leave that warehouse alive. They were about to kill you, and as soon as they knew I was there I went straight to the top of their hit list too."

"Looks like you didn't get away scot-free. That really must've rung your bell." Sam observed, looking at the bruise on Dean's temple. It was deep purple and blue in the middle, with green and yellow edges, and it looked like it had hurt like hell.

"It's had a while to heal. No permanent damage done," Dean replied dismissively. He had clearly had quite enough of this little heart-to-heart, and was ready for the whole thing to be over.

"I don't know about 'no permanent damage' - dude, you gave me a spongebath," Sam said, smiling, in an effort to lighten the mood. Dean pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and sighed - on top of everything else, now Sam was _teasing_ him.

"That doctor really did tell you _everything_, didn't he?" Dean muttered, rolling his eyes. "You were basically dying at the time, man, so I think I should get a pass on the teasing, all right?"

Sam chuckled, but he could see Dean was uncomfortable talking about it and decided to let him off the hook. He went back to his forgotten salad and started working away at it again, one lettuce leaf at a time. Dean, having had his fill of chick-flick moments for the day, got up to throw out the remains of his dinner - now stone cold - and get a well-deserved beer.

"That doctor's got a big mouth," he opined, as he opened the fridge and retrieved a bottle. He wanted something stronger after that, but beer would have to do for now.

"Seriously, Dean - thanks. I mean, you really pulled out all the stops for me over the last few days," Sam told him, and Dean smiled as he flicked the cap off the bottle with the green plastic Zippo on the kitchen bench. He'd misplaced his stainless steel lighter somewhere, and was reduced to using that plastic piece of crap for the time being.

"You're my brother, Sammy. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you." Dean's tone was casual, but they both knew he meant every word. Quite literally.

"Well in that case, while you're getting beers…" Sam suggested, hopefully, but Dean just laughed.

"No can do, Sammy - doctor's orders. Is the morphine not enough of a buzz?" he teased, and ignored the tongue Sam poked out at him. He sat down on the couch and turned on the TV, and Sam deliberately waited till he was settled before he spoke.

"So are you gonna quit now, or what?" he asked, out of the blue, and watched on in amusement as Dean almost choked on his beer.

"Quit what?" he asked, innocently, even though he knew exactly what Sam was talking about. His mind flashed back to the bright green fucking lighter he'd used to open the beer as Sam frigging _watched_.

"I saw the lighter, Dean." Sam confirmed, with a smile. "And the pack of cigarettes beside the fridge."

Dean twisted around to look at the bench by the fridge, and mentally kicked himself when he saw the bright white-and-gold pack of Marlboro Lights sitting there in plain sight.

Sam's healthy-eating-and-exercise attitude extended to a very strong opinion about smoking, and Dean had fully intended to keep the whole thing a secret. Dr. Sinclair had been right when he said Sam would lecture enough for the both of them, and Dean had absolutely no desire to hear another one of his brother's extended anti-smoking rants. It was hard work, arguing with a former pre-law student, and Dean's assertions that "we probably won't live long enough to get cancer anyway" never seemed to placate him, for some reason.

Dean looked over at Sam, his brain spinning its wheels in an effort to think up a way out of this. Sam was looking back expectantly, eyes sparkling, waiting to see what he came up with.

Eventually, Dean just decided to go with the truth. "It's stress relief, okay?" he said, defensively, and Sam raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"I couldn't sit here and drink while I was supposed to be watching you, could I? Had to find another solution." Dean continued, and Sam's expression softened a little.

He had to admit, that was actually a pretty good explanation. He could hardly blame Dean for looking for an outlet - it must've been hell, sitting around in this little motel room all day and night, just waiting for something to change… That said, he wasn't about to sit by and let his brother pick up _another_ bad habit.

"But now that you're not hovering on death's doorstep anymore, I guess I can go back to my usual vices," Dean went on, then dragged himself up off the couch and went back over to the fridge.

Sam watched, amused, as Dean swiped the pack of cigarettes off the bench and dropped them into the sink, where he proceeded to run a stream of cold water over them until the pack was dripping wet. Then he tossed them into the bin and looked pointedly back over at Sam.

"Happy?" he asked, throwing himself back down on the couch. Sam just smiled, secure in the knowledge he did in fact have Dean wrapped around his little finger.

* * *

><p><em>I'm not even going to mention how long it's been since my last update... *whistles innocently* Have no fear - I WILL finish this fic. I'm not going to leave you all hanging. I'm just writing three OTHER fics at the moment, too, and it's time consuming! Plus, I have to work to support my convention habit. ;)<em>

_So now you've read chapter 11. There are two or three more to come after this, and I want to know what you're thinking now we're in the home stretch. Please, review! The more enthusiastic I am about this fic, the faster I'll finish it... ;)_


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

For the next week, things went pretty smoothly. Brad visited daily and soon had Sam's morphine regimen fine-tuned to the point that he was awake most of the day, allowing the Winchester boys to spend some time catching up. And It was great, being stuck together in a motel room with countless hours to fill in the blanks - at first, anyway. As they quickly discovered, even after months apart you can only spend so long sitting and chatting before you run out of things to chat _about_. So, in pursuit of something to keep them both from going stir-crazy, Dean raided the motel's games room.

They tried Clue, but that felt a bit too much like work. Scrabble wasn't a fair fight, and crosswords were out of the question too, because God knows Sam didn't need anyone's help with those. They even braved a few brief rounds of Sorry and a short-lived game of Monopoly before finally settling on poker - it was slow with Sam's damaged hands, but he could do it, and though Dean was a vastly better player (even when Sam wasn't drugged to the eyeballs with morphine) he let his baby brother win occasionally.

When they weren't playing games or talking, Sam read voraciously - eBooks mostly, downloaded on the laptop. Dean was doing everything he possibly could to keep him comfortable, but Sam just didn't trust his taste when it came to buying actual bound, paper books - knowing Dean he'd wind up with comics, or worse. The older Winchester didn't exactly buy his reading material for the articles, after all.

While it was nice to spend some quality time together, the reality of the situation was never far away. There were always weapons within reach, just in case, and Dean was still getting up a couple of times a night to inject morphine into Sam's IV port - not that he minded, as he was usually already awake anyway. And, as it turned out, it was his insomnia that got him a front-row seat when Sam started having the nightmares.

It wasn't even dawn on Saturday morning, but Dean had already given Sam his prescribed dose of morphine and was sitting at the table savouring his first cup of coffee for the day when he heard soft moans coming from Sam's bed. That saw him up and by his little brother's side almost instantly, but it was immediately obvious Sam wasn't awake. His eyes were shut and flitting rapidly from side to side under their closed lids - the kid was having a nightmare.

"Please - stop. I don't know." Sam groaned the words louder this time, and stirred some more. He murmured something else Dean didn't understand, eyes scrunched up tight and beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x- x-x-x

_Sam__ hung limply by his wrists from the rafters, swaying slightly, the toes of his boots just touching the floor. Ray smiled as he walked back over to the table of 'toys', winding the werewolf-skin whip back into a tight little coil as he went, but Owen didn't move from his spot in front of Sam. He already had his instrument._

_"You're Satan's anointed one, Sammy. You've been palling around with demons for years," he drawled, and Sam glared back at him. They were asking him the same questions over and over and over again, and it was starting to grate on his nerves._

_"That doesn't mean I'm in on their plan...!" he repeated, for what seemed like the millionth time that night. Owen leaned in and studied him for a second, close enough that Sam could smell his stale breath. He held a cattle prod in his hand, and he tapped it thoughtfully against the opposite palm._

_"See, I don't believe that." He took a step back and briefly touched the prod to the youngest Winchester's side - there was a short, sharp buzzing noise, and Sam stiffened as a wave of hot pain radiated from his side and through his entire body. He shot another murderous glare at Owen, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, but if it bothered the other hunter he didn't show it._

_"I'm not real sure about how deep you're involved in their endgame," he said, his voice harder. "Maybe you're floating around on the edges, or maybe you're neck-deep in it. But you _are_ in it."_

_"I'm not in it at all!" Sam barely got the sentence out before Owen touched the cattle prod to his stomach. His entire body jerked, and he couldn't help the grunt of pain that escaped him._

_"Don't lie to us, Sam," Owen admonished him, low and intense, the tip of the cattle prod hovering barely an inch away._

_"I'm not lying to you!" he gasped, but Owen just shocked him again. It was longer this time, and the current sent Sam's respiratory muscles into spasm - he struggled to breathe even after the electricity stopped flowing._

_"It's not my fault you're too fucking dimwitted to see it!" he panted, and spat a mouthful of blood at his captor._

_Without a word, Ray grabbed the cattle prod from Owen and jammed it into the left side of Sam's chest. That entire side of his body went into painful spasms, pulling cruelly on his wounds and broken ribs. He threw his head back and screamed, the smell of burning meat filling his nose, but Ray just pushed harder._

_After what seemed like an eternity there was the sharp, acrid smell of smouldering electronics, and the flow of electricity suddenly and mercifully stopped. Ray swore and tossed the cattle prod away, sending it skittering across the floor. It smashed into a wall and sat there, smoking._

_Sam went limp and dropped his head, fighting to even breathe, but Ray grabbed his chin and jerked his head back up. "You better show us a little respect, boy," he snarled in that thick Southern accent, his nose mere inches away. His __fingers dug into Sam's jaw as he struggled to keep his eyes open. "I'm looking for my pound of flesh, remember."_

_There was a distinctive metallic swishing noise as Ray flicked open a four-inch butterfly knife and held it up between them, millimetres from Sam's cheek, where he could see it nice and clearly. It glinted in the light from the globe hanging above him, and it looked _sharp_._

_"You ever seen _Se7en_, Sammy?" he asked, but before Sam could answer he felt the the cold steel blade touch the skin over his left pectoral muscle, in the front of his shoulder. He suddenly got very still as Ray pressed down a little - that small amount of pressure was enough to slice through the top layers of skin, drawing tiny scarlet beads of blood along its length. It stung, and Sam did his best not to breathe so as not to push it any deeper._

_"I _can_ cut a pound of flesh from you, you know. There's lots of places on the body I could slice into without killing you." Ray paused, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Not right away, at least."_

_Sam_ stared back defiantly, ignoring his racing heart and keeping his mouth firmly shut, so Ray pressed down harder. The knife bit and Sam let out a strangled gasp of pain as he started to cut, agonisingly slowly, dragging the blade diagonally down towards the bottom of his sternum and leaving a gaping red wound in his pec that went almost all the way to the ribs beneath.__

_"You got anything you wanna tell us, boy?" Ray asked pointedly, as Sam bit down on another cry.__ He pulled back, trying to get some distance between himself and the blade, but beads of sweat rolled down his neck and chest and ran into the laceration, searing the raw flesh like liquid fire._

_"Yeah," he rasped, glaring as he panted through the pain. "That 'pound of flesh' thing is actually from Shakespeare, you philistine."_

_Ray actually smiled at him then, baring a mouthful of rotten, tobacco stained teeth as he flicked the knife closed. He looked back at Owen, who was perched on the edge of the table with his arms folded across his chest._

_"Owen, go get that modified taser, willya?"_

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x- x-x-x

Sam woke drenched in sweat with his heart racing to find someone shaking him by the shoulder.

"Dean?" he asked, blinking bleary eyes.

"Who else would it be?" Dean looked concerned, hovering over the bed like he had been when Sam first woke up a week ago.

Sam looked around, relieved to see the familiar, bland surroundings of the motel room in the early dawn light, and felt his heart rate start to slow. _You're not in the warehouse,_ he told himself, taking a deep, calming breath - as deep as his ribs would allow, anyway. _You're miles away, with Dean right beside you. You're safe._

Sam blinked some more, gathering his thoughts. "Was I dreaming?" he asked, forehead creased in a frown.

Dean nodded and took a seat in the chair beside the bed. "More like a nightmare. You remember what it was about?" he asked, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.

"Not really," Sam told him, hoping it wasn't as obvious a lie as it felt. Under the covers he pressed his shaking hands against the mattress, resisting the urge to reach up and touch his left pec. He didn't know why he was having these dreams _now_ all of a sudden, when he'd been sleeping fine all week, but he didn't want to talk about it. He didn't even want to _think_ about it.

Dean saw straight through the lie, but he didn't press it. "That's cool. Morphine dreams can be _weird_, man," he said knowingly, like he knew from personal experience.

That piqued Sam's interest. "Are you well-acquainted with - what did you call it? Miss Emma?" He asked the question not just because he wanted to change the subject, but also because - despite his better judgement - he was curious.

"Not personally, no, but Miss Emma has an Aunt Nora," Dean admitted. "And a couple of cousins, named Christina and Lucy…" he added, but trailed off. Sam just looked at him. He already knew his brother was no altar boy, but he didn't want a freaking _list_.

Dean cleared his throat. "Anyway - whether it was clowns or midgets or whatever, the morphine is probably what did it," he suggested, after a moment of silence.

Sam didn't look like he was buying it. He just lay there, very quiet and still awfully pale, with a faraway look in his eyes like he wasn't really hearing what his brother was saying. Dean recognised that expression, because he'd seen it in the mirror - it was the kind of look you got while your mind was replaying your nightmares behind your eyes, full-screen and in technicolour.

"You know, you should go back to sleep. It's hardly even dawn yet," Dean said, trying to keep his voice light.

"Nah. I'm pretty well awake now anyway," Sam replied, trying to hide an involuntary shiver. He had a sinking feeling he wasn't having nightmares so much as flashbacks, and he had no desire to revisit that warehouse anytime soon.

To Sam's considerable relief, Dean didn't press the issue. "Okay… tea, then?" he asked, instead.

"That'd be good," Sam replied gratefully, and Dean was pleased to see him smile a little - it was brief and a little anaemic, but it was a smile all the same. He barely had time to get out of his chair before there was the familiar crunching sound of Dr. Sinclair's BMW pulling up in the gravel carpark outside.

Dean had the door open before he could even knock, and as usual, Brad was careful not to disturb the salt line at the doorjamb as he stepped inside. He was carrying his usual black bag in one hand, full of stethoscopes and instruments and things, plus a small cardboard box of dressings and wound care supplies in the other that he immediately palmed off on Dean.

"Hi boys." He put his newly-freed hand to his mouth to stifle a yawn. "Sorry I'm so early, but I got off work sooner than expected and I'd really love to get home to bed."

"That's fine. We were up anyway," Sam said, putting on a smile that Dean thought was somewhat forced.

"Your job has worse hours than ours," Dean observed, and shoved a stack of board games, books, playing cards and a shotgun to one side of the coffee table so he could set the box down. He caught the Monopoly box just before it pitched over the edge, and tossed it onto the couch. It settled in the corner with a rattle of tiny plastic buildings and Dean went to stand beside Sam's bed, opposite the doctor.

"Yeah, I try not to think about that." Brad gave Dean a tired but genuine smile and pulled the covers back to check out Sam's damaged right foot. It still wasn't pretty, but the swelling was subsiding, the wounds were mostly healed and the bruises were turning from scarlet red to inky purple and blue, and even sickly shades of yellow and green in places. It created a rainbow effect that was actually kind of cool, in Dean's opinion. Sam hadn't agreed.

"When did you give the last dose of morphine?" Dr. Sinclair asked, taking a closer look at the small toes. They were starting to look like toes again, rather than split sausages, and were healing well considering the meatball surgery that had been employed to close the wounds and set the bones.

"About half an hour ago," Dean replied, and the doctor nodded as he pulled the covers back further to check out the burns and cuts on Sam's legs. They were coming along nicely, so he pulled the covers back down again and moved up to check Sam's upper body.

"And how's your hip feeling?" Dr. Sinclair asked the younger Winchester, checking the nail beds of his plaster-encased left hand. There were a couple of games of noughts and crosses scrawled on the back of the cast.

"It's good, actually. Just kind of aches sometimes when I've been sitting up for too long," Sam replied, wincing as Brad leaned over and gently pulled back the dressing from the bone-deep burn just above his left elbow. That one had gotten infected, and the halo of hot, red inflammation around it was only just starting to settle down. It still hurt like hell.

Apparently satisfied, the doctor straightened up and shrugged out of his jacket. "So let's get you up and around, then," he said, without preamble.

The two Winchester boys reacted very differently to that. Sam sat up a little straighter and his face immediately split into a wide smile - Dean, however, faced the doctor with his brow furrowed and arms crossed over his chest. "What, _today_…?" he asked, his tone making his lack of enthusiasm for the idea obvious.

Dr. Sinclair didn't miss a beat. He'd been expecting Dean to resist a little - he'd only known them for a grand total of about two weeks, but had realised very early on that Dean felt responsible for his little brother. He was going to make absolutely sure that whatever they did wasn't going to hurt Sam.

"It's earlier than we would usually get him up, admittedly, but I think it would do him good to start moving around a bit," he assured Dean, before he looked back at Sam. "I don't want you doing laps of the motel or anything, but we need to get you mobile as soon as possible." He didn't add_ 'just in case you need to run for your life'_, but it was obvious he was thinking it.

"Yeah." Sam's smile faltered a little, and he glanced down at his various dressings, splints and casts. "So does this mean I can I take a shower?" he added, looking back up at the doctor hopefully.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." Brad smiled, and draped his jacket over the back of a nearby chair. "Since you're going to be up and around, do you have a robe or something you could wear?"

Sam shook his head. "Everything I own is either shredded or a couple of states away," he replied ruefully. Right now, everything he owned was sitting out of reach in a box in Sioux Falls.

"Not to worry - I think I've got a hospital gown in the car," Brad assured him, and went back out to check. Dean watched him, frowning - he'd actually forgotten that Sam was stark naked under the covers, but that wasn't what was bothering him.

He waited until the doctor was out the front door before he spoke. "You sure you're ready for this?" he asked, his voice low.

Sam sighed. He'd been expecting that. "Dean, I'm going mad here," he said. "I _have_ to get out of this bed - I don't care how much it hurts."

Dean pursed his lips. "I just don't want you to push too hard and set yourself back because of whoever may or may not be looking for us."

"I can do it," Sam insisted. "What I_ can't _do is sit here all day anymore and play Clue and Battleship and frigging Monopoly."

Dean studied him for a moment, thinking. He didn't like to admit it, but he had wondered a couple of times if this day would ever come. Owen and Ray had done all they could to see that it didn't, that was for sure, and yet here they were - Sam was healthy enough that the doc thought he could get up and around, and that was good.

_Well, it's a solid-gold fucking _miracle_, really..._

"What, you wanna play Twister instead?" Dean asked, unable to help the smile that touched his lips. Sam was alive, and well enough to get out of bed, and yeah - that was _definitely_ a good thing.

Sam beamed at him. "You know what _would _help? That cup of tea."

Dean rolled his eyes, but he was smiling as he turned to go back into the kitchen. He turned on the kettle and tore open a paper-wrapped bag of the non-caffeinated herbal tea he'd dubbed 'flower water' - it had antioxidants or vitamins or something in it that were supposed to help with wound healing, though, so he was trying not to tease Sam too much.

"And, hey, look on the bright side - I'll be able to get up and make my own tea now," Sam pointed out, and Dean chuckled as he dropped the tea bag into a cup and filled it with near-boiling water.

"I s'pose it's about time, you lazy bastard. Been laying around for nearly two weeks now, getting waited on hand and foot," he teased. "And let's face it, Sammy, you could do with that shower."

Sam resisted the urge to poke his tongue out at his big brother as he brought the cup over and set on the bedside table to brew. "Ha ha, very funny. But tell me, Dean, what am I going to wear?" he asked instead, looking at him pointedly.

Dean thought about it for a second, and a smile spread across his face as an idea came to him. He went over to his duffel, rummaged around a bit, then stood up and displayed a pair of dark blue cotton boxer briefs emblazoned with Batman's insignia in bright yellow, right over the crotch.

Sam raised an unenthusiastic eyebrow, and Dean laughed. "They're the only clean ones I've got. I mean, I can give you a plain black pair, but…" He let the sentence hang, grinning, and Sam wrinkled his nose. He wasn't _that _desperate. Hell, he'd walk around naked before he put on Dean's unwashed underwear.

"You know, I think I can live with just a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt," he suggested hopefully.

"My sweatpants aren't exactly clean either," Dean pointed out, digging around in his bag some more. "Plus, they'll be like shorts on you, Sammy."

Sam sighed - he had a point. Two points, actually. "Wanna go shopping...?" he asked, watching anxiously to see what would appear next.

"Tell you what, next time I'm out I'll get you something that'll fit. In the meantime..." Dean tossed the Batman briefs and a grey Superman t-shirt over onto Sam's bed.

"You got the entire Justice League in there?" Sam asked, picking up the briefs between two fingers. After a quick inspection, he decided that they did indeed look clean. Good thing, too, because he hadn't really been looking forward to walking around naked.

"All except Wonder Woman. She's somewhere in the stack of _Playboy_s in my trunk," Dean replied, getting a wry smile from Sam.

He was saved from further discussion about Dean's _Playboy_ collection by Dr. Sinclair coming back through the door. Sam's eyes lit up when he noticed there was now an aluminium cane in his hand, but he frowned slightly when he saw that's all the doctor was carrying.

"Bad news, Sam," Brad said apologetically. "I meant to bring a hospital gown with me, but I haven't slept in 36 hours and it seems to have slipped my mind. Looks like we're going to be wrapping you in a sheet."

That made Dean smile, but the younger Winchester obviously wasn't thrilled by the prospect. The flat sheet was old and entirely too flimsy for his liking - the damn thing was so worn it was almost see-through, in fact.

"Once you're up and around, you can start wearing actual clothes," Dean pointed out, by way of encouragement.

Sam sighed, looking down at his bedcovers. It wasn't ideal, but he didn't see another solution.

_You can__ cope for a few minutes.__ It wasn't all that long ago you were considering walking around naked__, anyway…_

"Just make sure the curtains are shut, okay?" Sam relented. He didn't mind the doctor being there, and it wasn't uncommon for either Winchester to briefly go towel-less after a shower, but he drew the line at putting on a peep show for random passers-by.

Dean grinned, but he checked the curtains as the doctor stripped the blanket off the bed, leaving only the off-white sheet covering the younger Winchester. The worn, threadbare, awfully translucent sheet. Sam resisted the urge to fold his hands across his lap, and fixed his attention on Brad instead.

"So we're going to do this gradually. Dean and I are going to sit you on the edge of the bed, and you're going to stay there for a minute before we try and stand you up. It's probably going to hurt, and you're probably also going to get a sudden drop in your blood pressure which is going to make you feel a bit woozy," Dr. Sinclair explained.

Sam nodded. "So let's do it." He took as deep a breath as his ribs would allow and exhaled slowly as Brad leaned over to grip his ankles, trying to ignore the way his heart rate was climbing. He wanted to get out of bed more than anything, but he was quite sure it was going to hurt like hell and he wasn't particularly looking forward to that bit.

"On three, I'm going to swing his legs off the bed and you're going to help him sit up," the doctor told Dean. He nodded and went to stand by Sam's shoulders, giving him what he hoped was a reassuring smile as Brad started the countdown.

"One…"

"…two..."

"_…three._"

The doctor swung Sam's legs smoothly around and off the bed as Dean simultaneously pulled his little brother upright, and Sam let out a gasp of pain as his broken body moved in ways it hadn't for a week and a half. Then everything suddenly went a little fuzzy and he started to feel very lightheaded as his heart began thumping harder in his chest, trying to get more blood up into his brain.

Brad gave him a moment to adjust while he took a couple of long, slow breaths, and the dizziness started to fade. "Think you can stand up?" the doctor asked, and Sam nodded.

"Okay, Dean - let's stand him up."

Sam felt them take an arm each, and they next thing he knew they were hauling him up to stand on his feet. Just as Brad warned, the second he got upright his blood pressure dropped suddenly and dramatically through the floor.

His gasped as his head started spinning, swaying alarmingly as big orange and black spots appeared in his vision - if Brad and Dean hadn't been holding him, he would've gone straight down again. He knew all this was the result of gravity pooling blood in his lower limbs, but that wasn't much comfort while his world was spinning nauseatingly around him. On the plus side though, the dizziness and nausea took the lion's share of his attention - the pain in his chest, pelvis and feet was just background noise.

"Shouldn't we lay him back down?" Dean's voice wafted in through the hypotensive fog, and he sounded stressed.

"It's okay - he's just feeling a bit faint. It'll pass." Dr. Sinclair was reassuringly calm as he put a hand to Sam's neck to check his pulse. It was a little fast, and his blood pressure was indeed low, but that was normal when someone got vertical for the first time in a week.

It took half a minute for Sam's vision to clear and the room to stop spinning, but eventually he was able to stay up on his own. He stood mostly on his left foot, his right heel touching the floor only for balance, and it _hurt_. A lot. His ribs protested, his hip ached, and the partially-healed wounds all over his body stretched painfully with his skin, but Sam didn't care about that or the fact he was completely naked and only loosely wrapped in a translucent sheet. He was _standing_, despite Owen and Ray's best efforts, and he found himself smiling widely.

"You doing okay there, Sammy?" Dean asked warily, noticing the ridiculous grin on his brother's face.

"God, it's good to be out of bed!" he laughed, and looked over at Dr. Sinclair. "But you know what I really want."

The doctor smiled and put the aluminium cane into his right hand. "Get to the bathroom with some help from your brother, and I'll remove the catheter and give you some waterproof dressings," he offered, and Sam grinned again.

"Deal."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o- o-o-o

Things stayed quiet at the motel for the rest of the weekend. In fact, trouble waited until the Monday afternoon before it tracked them down.

It was a cold, grey, miserable day outside, and for once Dean was happy to be stuck inside their shoebox of a room. He was sitting at the kitchen table doing a little net surfing and just generally keeping up with the outside world when there was a rustling sound from the couch, and he looked up to see Sam struggling to his feet.

Tomorrow would be two weeks to the day since he'd launched his daring rescue, and Sam was really starting to get better. He was getting more use back in his hands, and doing a lot more stuff for himself with less and less help from his brother. Just as he'd promised, Dean had bought him some sweatpants, a hoodie and a couple of t-shirts so he could hobble around by himself. He never complained, but Dean could see from the way he moved that his ribs hurt like hell and his hip still wasn't awesome - he had a noticeable limp that had nothing to do with his damaged feet.

Sam used his right arm to push himself up off the couch, holding his broken left wrist close to him, and winced as he put a little too much weight through his injured right hip. He grabbed his aluminium cane and started gingerly towards the kitchen, being careful not to put too much weight on his right foot with all its broken bones and healing wounds. Dean winced just watching him, but didn't offer to help. Getting a slice of his independence back made him feel better, so Dean left him to it and went back to his net surfing.

Sam hobbled to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of orange juice, and shambled back to sit carefully on the couch. He turned up the volume on the TV and Dean looked up, wrinkling his nose. The theme music sounded ominously soap-opera-ish.

"What is that crap you're watching, Sam?"

"All My Children," Sam admitted, after a pause. Dean let out a derisive snort, and went over to the coffeemaker to pour himself a cup. He was just sitting back down at the kitchen table when someone rapped on the door.

Both Winchesters froze. There shouldn't _be _anyone at the door. The motel's housekeeping service had strict do-not-disturb instructions and the only other person that even knew they were here was Dr. Sinclair - and he wasn't supposed to be back until tomorrow.

Dean glanced over at Sam, whose full, wide-eyed attention was fixed on the door. There was no further communication from whoever was outside, just the sound of the rain on the corrugated iron porch roof.

Dean felt his heart rate rise as he stood up and gathered his stainless steel Colt. He disengaged the safety as he crept forward, gun held in both hands, pointing low. Then, suddenly, a voice called out from behind the door.

"Dean…?"

He immediately recognised the voice, as did Sam. The younger Winchester relaxed into the couch as Dean flicked the safety back on and tucked the Colt into the waistband of his jeans, muttering curses under his breath as he undid the chain and unlocked the door. It swung open to reveal Cas standing on their doorstep, looking even more dishevelled than usual.

"You told me to ring the doorbell, but you don't appear to have one," he said by way of greeting, and Dean sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face.

_Of _course_ it's Cas. Who else would turn up silently on your doorstep and scare the living daylights out of you?_

"You can't just sneak up on us like that, Cas! Do you have _any _idea how close I was to shooting you through the damn door?" Dean demanded, glaring at the angel.

"It wouldn't have hurt me," Cas replied, after staring obliquely at Dean for a second.

"God save me from His frigging angels," Dean muttered, rolling his eyes skyward. "Get in here." He grabbed Cas by one beige lapel and dragged him inside before anyone could see him standing in the doorway in broad daylight.

"Hey Cas," Sam greeted him cheerily from the couch as Dean took a quick look outside then locked the door securely behind him.

"Hello, Sam - you're looking much better." Cas smiled. They'd had their differences, but there was genuine warmth in his voice - he was glad to see the younger Winchester was on the mend.

"So what made you kick over this rock we're hiding under?" Dean asked, setting his Colt back down on the kitchen table. He sat on its edge, arms crossed over his chest as he looked at Cas.

All traces of the smile vanished from the angel's face, and he got straight to the point. "You and Sam need to leave. Immediately." He looked around, suddenly pensive, like someone might break down the door at any moment.

"Why?" Dean and Sam asked, simultaneously.

"You aren't safe here. Your kidnappers had friends, Sam, and those friends will arrive in this town by tonight."

Dean's eyes widened and he felt his heart skip a couple of beats. "How the hell did they find us?"

"They_ haven't_ found you, as yet. They arrived in Blue Springs yesterday evening and found a lead that is bringing them in this direction," Cas explained.

Dean sighed, chewing on his bottom lip. He glanced over at Sam sitting silently on the couch, suddenly looking very pale, and could almost hear the wheels turning as the kid considered all the evil things these guys might do if they found him.

"How do you know these people are connected to the bastards that took Sam?" Dean asked, tearing his gaze away from Sam and fixing it firmly back on the angel. Cas just looked back at him.

"I am an angel of the Lord," he replied, like that should explain everything.

"Right. Of course you are." Dean got up and grabbed his duffel from the corner. He tossed it onto his bed and started reaching for clothes to throw into it.

Cas watched him, and just as he seemed to be about to say something he suddenly went very still and his eyes drifted out of focus until he was staring into the middle distance. He tilted his head to the side like he was listening to something, his forehead creasing as he frowned.

"Not good news on Angel Radio?" Sam asked, apprehensive.

The angel blinked a few times, then focused on Sam. "Unfortunately, no." He sighed wearily, and turned to look at Dean. "I'll keep watch on your pursuers, but I have to leave. You two need to get out of this town as soon as possible," he reiterated grimly.

"As soon as the car's loaded, we're history," Dean agreed, and paused to look up. "Thanks for the heads-up, Cas," he said, and the angel gave him a nod. Then, with a rustling of feathers, he was gone.

"So I guess we're going, huh?" Sam asked, watching Dean cram every piece of clothing within reach into the olive drab canvas bag.

Dean didn't stop packing. "Feel like an interstate road trip?" He tried to keep his voice light, but this was the last thing he wanted to be doing. He didn't want to have to ask Sam to move. Hell, the kid couldn't _breathe_ without painkillers.

Sam wasn't thrilled at the prospect either, and it showed in his voice. "What choice do I have? We can't stay here like sitting ducks and wait for them to find us." His hip twinged as he thought about the Impala jouncing down miles and miles of back roads and badly-maintained auxiliary highways…

Dean stopped what he was doing and looked up at his little brother. He looked anxious and awfully pale. "Sam, if you don't think you can-"

Sam interrupted him mid-sentence. "We have to get out of this town - hell, out of this _state_. I can take it," he said, sounding much more confident than he felt.

Dean frowned - Sam wasn't fooling anyone, but he didn't really see another option here. He glanced over at his stainless steel Colt on the table, and for half a second he actually seriously considering sticking around and making a stand. If he had to, he'd shoot these ones too - to protect Sam, he'd kill every last one. That would put a permanent end to this madness, at least, but he didn't like his chances. These guys were hunting the men that killed their buddies and they'd come loaded for bear.

Dean turned his gaze back to Sam and studied him for a second before he spoke. "Okay. Well, if you're just gonna sit there, at least make yourself useful - call the doc and tell him we've gotta blow town. I'm sure there's a prescription he should be writing for you or something." Dean paused to toss Sam his cell phone and went back to packing, trying to zip the duffel shut and giving up after a few tugs on the zipper. His 'shove everything in and hope' method wasn't exactly a space-saver.

The phone landed on the blanket Sam was sitting under, and it took him a minute to pick it up with his immobilised, slightly shaky hands and dial Dr. Sinclair's number. As it turned out, Dean was right: he did indeed want to see them before they hightailed it out of Columbia. He didn't have to wait long, either - the Winchesters were packed, loaded up and checked out barely fifteen minutes later.

When they got to the hospital Dean parked in a small lot out the back, away from prying eyes cruising the main road out front. Brad was waiting in a covered walkway, sheltered from the rain, and he shepherded them inside to the privacy of an exam room. He didn't say anything on the walk through the ER, being that it was full of staff and patients, but his expression told them all they needed to know - just as they'd suspected, he wasn't pleased to see them going.

Brad led them to an exam room in the back of the department that was about the size of a shoebox, and Dean pulled the door shut behind them while Sam took a seat on the edge of the gurney. He blinked when the doctor dumped a cardboard box full of dressings, disinfectant and other wound care paraphernalia on the foam mattress beside him - it looked like there was enough stuff in there to supply the entire ER for a week.

Brad gave them both a stern look as he drew up a syringe of morphine. "Are you boys _sure_ you have to leave? I'd really like Sam to rest for a few more days at least."

"We've got no choice," Dean replied, leaning against the olive-green wall and watching as he slid the needle into the IV port in the back of Sam's right hand. "If those assholes find us, the last two weeks will have been for nothing. They'll shoot us both right between the eyes."

"You really think we'd be that lucky?" Sam asked softly, flexing his fingers as the doctor removed the syringe and dropped it into a bright yellow plastic sharps container. He and Dean both knew that after what they'd done, or at least been _perceived_ to have done, their deaths wouldn't be that quick and painless.

Dr. Sinclair looked from Sam to Dean and back again, brow creasing slightly at the haunted look in Sam's eyes. "You're sure they're coming here?"

Dean let out a short bark of laughter. "Yeah, our source is pretty well connected, doc."

Brad sighed, resigned - he wasn't happy about it, but if there was a chance Sam's captors were on their trail he knew they couldn't risk it. "Okay. If you have to go, you have to go. But if there are any problems, call me - if we can't solve it, I can at least give you a cover story to use when you turn up at God-knows-which ER," he said, and took a resealable plastic bag out of the box of supplies. He held it up so Sam and Dean could see the contents - fresh needles, disinfectant wipes, familiar ampules of morphine, and a couple of prescription slips.

"There's enough liquid morphine in here to last you a couple of days, including a few extra injections to keep the pain at bay while you're on the road. After you get wherever you're going you can remove the IV port - there's a script here for a few weeks' worth of Percocet. By the time you get through those, you should be able to manage the pain with over-the-counter meds like codeine or ibuprofen." He put the bag back and held out a hand to Dean, who smiled and shook it.

"Thanks, doc," he said, simply. He felt like he should say something _more_, but what can you say to adequately thank the guy that saved your only living family…?

"Thank you," Sam chimed in, pushing himself up off the gurney with a barely-noticeable wince. "You saved my life - somehow, 'thank you' doesn't seem like enough." He held out his right hand, out of reflex more than anything else, but the doctor smiled and shook it carefully.

"All in a day's work. And besides, you boys saved me first." He opened the door to let Sam limp slowly out into the hall as Dean scooped up the cardboard box. "When this is all over, call me, okay? Let me know how it turned out," he added, and Dean clapped him on the shoulder as he followed Sam out.

"If they don't hunt us down and slaughter us, we'll be sure to let you know," he replied, only half joking.

By the time they made it back out to the Impala, the extra shot of morphine had its claws well and truly into Sam and he was finding it hard to walk straight. Dean got the back passenger door open just before his knees went to jelly, and he flaked out across the back seat. Dean passed him a blanket and pillow he'd souvenired from the motel, then climbed into the front seat.

"You okay back there?" he asked, waiting for a beaten-up white Mondeo to pass by before he pulled out of the space.

"Yeah, I'm good," Sam sighed, putting the pillow under his head. He could feel the hazy, disconnected sensation that comes from being extraordinarily well-medicated creeping up on him, and he yawned. "So, where are we going?"

"Honestly? I have no idea. I was thinking west," Dean said cheerily, pulling out of the hospital carpark and onto the road. He did it slowly so as not to bounce Sam around too much in the back seat, and got a few angry honks from other drivers for his trouble.

"Why west…?"

"Well, we can't go much further north before we hit Canada. Can't go east, either, 'cause…" Dean paused for a beat, completely ignoring the ire of the other drivers around him as he tried to take the turn towards the M63 as slowly and smoothly as possible. "Well, let's just say there's some folks back there by the interstate in southern Illinois that wouldn't be too happy to see me."

Sam yawned again, struggling to keep his eyes open as the morphine really started to take hold. He couldn't even be bothered to ask what kind of mess Dean had made in Illinois that he didn't want to go near the place. "What's wrong with South Dakota?" he asked blearily.

Dean heaved a sigh, tapping one hand absently on the wheel. He'd considered that, and he didn't like the idea. "I don't wanna bring this down on Bobby."

"Do you have a better plan…?" Sam pulled the blanket up over him and closed his eyes, stifling another yawn.

"Not really." Dean sighed again and turned the radio down. _God knows I don't wanna lead a posse of bloodthirsty hunters to his doorstep, but what choice do we have...?_

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x- x-x-x

_Owen and Ray hit Sam with blow after blow from bare fists, brass knuckles and steel-toe boots until it felt like his entire body was one big bruise. Then, when his eyes and mouth were full of fresh, flowing blood and he was only semi-conscious, Ray flicked open that butterfly knife and abruptly sliced through the rope a few inches above his wrists._

_The younger Winchester's broken feet couldn't even begin to hold him, and he collapsed to the ground like a 6'4", 200lb sack of potatoes. The point of his right hip hit the concrete floor and he cried out at the explosion of hot pain that radiated through his abdomen, down through his leg and up into his back. Owen drove one more kick into his stomach for good measure, and he curled up around his injured midsection with a groan._

_Ray walked past him towards the table of instruments, making sure his boot came down on the back of Sam's right hand as he went. Two or three bones snapped like dry twigs, and it took a second before he could even get enough breath into his lungs to let out a yell._

_There was a rough grunt of laughter from Ray and Sam tried to pull his hands in closer to his body, out of harm's way, but Owen slammed a work boot down on his left wrist hard enough to bruise. He winced, trying in vain to pull his wrist free, but Owen leaned all his weight on that one foot and Sam couldn't budge it._

_"Oh no you don't," he chided, as Ray turned and came back. Sam braced himself as the feet came closer, and he wasn't disappointed. Ray stomped harder on this hand and he couldn't contain the howl of pain._

_This time, though, his bones weren't the only thing making cracking noises. The concrete under his palm split into a spiderweb of radiating, interwoven fissures when Ray stepped on it. Sam blinked at them in disbelief, wondering briefly if he was having a stroke or something._

_Ray laughed again and gave him another stomp for good measure, and through the haze of pain Sam noted that the floor actually _shook_. The cracks widened and spread out further, shooting off in all directions, making a sound like fracturing ice._

_Owen and Ray just walked away from him, seemingly unaware, and the floor shook again under him. It was more violent this time and he saw the cracks in the floor spread to the cinderblock walls, running up them impossibly fast towards the high ceiling. Pieces of the concrete blocks dropped away, shattering on the floor and sending rubble and chips of cement flying. He heard the roof above them start to groan under the stress-_

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x- x-x-x

Sam woke with a start and a groan of pain. It took him a second to register that he was in the back seat of the Impala, rattling down an anonymous section of rough-as-guts two lane blacktop in the fading late-afternoon light. Dean was doing his best, driving under the speed limit and trying to avoid the worst of the potholes, but there just wasn't much he could do. The road was pitted and disintegrating, and Sam could hear loose stones being flung up into the wheel wells.

"Sorry, man. I've gotta take the back roads," Dean said apologetically.

"I know," Sam replied, the strain obvious in his voice as he struggled to sit up straight. His hip burned and his ribs felt worse than they had in days.

Dean turned back to glance at him briefly. "So, what were you dreaming about?" He tried to keep his tone neutral, but it was obvious he knew Sam had been having a nightmare.

Sam took a shaky breath, considering his options. He wasn't about to tell his brother he was having flashbacks to his own personal Hell on Earth - he was sure that's what they were now. And as if that wasn't bad enough, the way the movement of the Impala twisted it into a nightmare about the building collapsing on him like that… he shuddered. _Flashbacks that mutate into nightmares. Awesome._

"Lollipops and candy canes." Sam looked out his window at the trees rushing past, deliberately avoiding eye contact.

Dean sighed, turning back to the road. He remembered the last time Sam said that.

"So where the hell are we?" Sam yawned, reaching up to run a hand back over his mussed-up hair. He was obviously trying to change the subject, and Dean let him. He was rapidly running out of free passes, though - one day very soon Dean intended to pry the lid off that can of worms.

"Some Godforsaken little goat track by Route 291." Dean winced as the Impala jounced over another depression in the road, and Sam sucked in a breath and put his hand to his hip. "We're about to hit Independence, and then the plan is to skirt around Liberty and shoot through into South Dakota."

"So we _are_ going to Bobby's then?" Sam asked, trying to keep his voice casual even though the pain was breaking through the morphine every time the Impala hit a little bump in the road.

"Yeah," Dean replied, and his tone of voice made it obvious he wasn't keen on the idea.

"It'll be nice to have my stuff back." Sam missed his laptop and his clothes especially. The last time he saw_ any_ of it was that evening he went to work, the night before Dean rolled into town.

"Tell me something - why were you going through Blue Springs anyway? On your way to a job?" Sam asked conversationally. Dean shifted uneasily in his seat and kept his gaze steadfastly forward - now it was his turn to avoid eye contact.

"Dean?" Sam prompted, his interest piqued.

"Well, I didn't actually strictly _need_ to go through Blue Springs..."

A slow smile spread across Sam's face. "You didn't need to go through Missouri at all, did you?"

"I came to see you, all right?" Dean admitted. His eyes were fixed firmly on the road ahead, away from Sam and this chick-flick moment.

"Well, I'm glad you did," Sam told him, smiling as he remembered the little flutter in his chest when Dean called to say he was coming through town. Of course he would never, ever tell _Dean_ about it, because that sort of thing was likely to get him laughed at and referred to as 'Samantha' for the rest of the day.

Dean chuckled from his spot up front, oblivious. "Yeah, I bet - otherwise, no-one would've noticed you were missing."

"Not only that," Sam paused. "It was a long few months, you know?" he said, meaningfully.

"Yeah, Sammy, I missed you too." A smile touched the corners of Dean's mouth. Sam couldn't see it from his spot in the back seat, but he heard it in his voice.

Sam turned his head to look out the window, still smiling, just as a sign blew past on the side of the road - the exit for Kansas City was coming up soon. "You said we're going up around Liberty, right?" he said innocently.

"Yeah," Dean replied.

"Which means we're going past Kansas City."

"Yeah..." Dean repeated, slower. He was starting to sense there was a point to this.

"I want my book back."

Dean glanced back at Sam, not quite able to believe his ears. He inadvertently jerked the wheel as he did, and the Impala almost swerved out of its lane before he corrected. A big rig in the lane beside them blew its air horn as it flew past in a cloud of dust and small stones, but Dean ignored it. He couldn't believe what he'd just heard.

"There are three hunters dead back there and their buddies are on our trail, but you want to stop and pick up a _book_?!"

"I want the book, yeah, but I also want to meet the woman that basically saved my life," Sam replied, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world.

"Really, Sam?" Dean studied him in the rear view mirror, the expression on his face suggesting he was trying to decide whether he was high or not. "'Cause last time I checked, _I_ was the one nearly getting my head blown off saving your Gigantor ass!"

"And I'm grateful, believe me." Sam put on his best puppy dog eyes, all their destructive power focused on his older brother. "I just need ten minutes, Dean. That's all."

Dean kept glaring for a long moment, but then sighed and looked away with a familiar look of exasperation that let Sam know he'd won. He half-heartedly smacked the steering wheel with one hand, cursing under his breath as Sam sat gingerly back in the corner of the seat with a little smile on his face.

* * *

><p><em>On the road again! :) I think we can all agree we've spent quite enough time in that shoebox of a motel room - but r<em>_est assured, we're in the home stretch now, back on the twists and turns of the highway of drama and unpredictability! Only two or three more chapters to come..._


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

A drizzly, grey twilight was closing in fast when Dean brought the Impala to a stop by the curb opposite Mel's house.

He killed the engine and took a look around, but there wasn't a lot to see, really. Traffic was almost non-existent this far away from a main road, and the street was quiet. A soccer mom cruised by in her cliché neutral-coloured SUV, the oversized vehicle rumbling through the suburban tranquillity like a truck.

Dean watched the SUV shrink into the distance in his side mirror, brow furrowed and unconsciously biting down on his lower lip.

_If those psychos are tailing you, they should stick out like a dog's balls around here. _

The kind of people that would be hunting them wouldn't exactly blend in among the White Picket Fence Brigade, what with their shiny SUVs and late-model family sedans. He'd seen no sign of anything even remotely shady - and he'd sure as hell been looking - so why couldn't he shake this feeling that someone had eyes on them…?

"You waiting for a written invitation?" Sam piped up from the back seat, interrupting his big brother's train of thought.

Dean muttered something impolite under his breath and the keys jangled as he pulled them from the ignition, but he stayed put. For a long moment, the only sound was the soft patter of rain on the roof and the familiar _tick tick tick_ of the engine as it started to cool.

"You're being paranoid, Dean," Sam went on. He sounded a lot more confident than Dean thought he was probably feeling.

"Yeah, whatever." Paranoid or not, Dean was tempted to shove the keys right back in and take off for Sioux Falls and to hell with Sam's frigging book. There was something grating against those hunter's instincts, telling him to get the hell outta Dodge, but…

_But that book's not why he's really here,_ Dean reminded himself. _No way your amnesiac little brother pushed that hard to come and see the psychic witch so he could get his _book_ back. That's not the story he wants to get out of her._

"Let's just get this over with," the older Winchester grumbled, zipping up his jacket all the way to his chin, and shoved open the door. His boots immediately sank almost an inch into the sodden verge, and he hunched his shoulders against the persistent drizzle as he pulled open the Impala's back door.

Sam had as much morphine on board as Dean had been game to give him at the last rest stop, enough to make him pale and unsteady on his feet, but it still obviously hurt him to move. He held his broken left arm close to his body and, being careful not to put any strain through his right hip, reached out with his right hand to pull himself gingerly towards the open door. It made Dean wince just to watch.

_That hand's only got a few broken metacarpals, after all, _he thought, and sounded sarcastic even to himself. _And that's his _good_ hand. _It was still swollen and bruised even now, with multiple half-knit broken bones.

Dean reached out to help as Sam struggled out into the rain, but the younger Winchester pushed him away. "It's not that bad," Sam told him, before Dean could open his mouth, but the sentence was almost cut short by a wince as he tried to stand up straight.

"Uh-huh," Dean observed drily, lips pressed together as he watched his baby brother take a couple of deep, slow breaths, bracing himself with a bandaged hand on the Impala's rear quarter panel. Another couple of cars cruised past before he got it together, but eventually, and with an obvious effort, he stood up on his own two feet.

He was trying not to let on, but it was clear to Dean that this hurt like hell. Sam was dead set on this visit, though, so short of drugging and effectively kidnapping him, there wasn't much the older Winchester could do about it. He'd considered doing just that - quite seriously, actually - and if he wasn't so concerned about inadvertently killing his already-over-medicated baby brother, he very well might've gone through with it.

"Sam-" Dean gave it another shot, but once again his baby brother cut him off.

"Which house, Dean?"

Dean shoved the car door shut with a sigh. "Fine, tough guy." He waved a hand at the house directly opposite them, on the other side of the street. "It's the white weatherboard number with all the rose bushes out front."

Sam started wordlessly - and slowly - for the house Dean pointed out, trying not to limp too much. He didn't quite break out in a sweat, but an afternoon spent on the road had evidently set his recovery back. Dean tried not to think about how much of that rough, open road was still in front of them as he locked the Impala and went after him. He was limping noticeably now, obviously in pain, but Dean let his little brother lead him up the path towards the witch's front door.

"So, she's got a bit of a green thumb, this one," Dean observed, making a deliberate effort to change the subject.

A few steps ahead, Sam felt a brief rush of relief. If Dean was going to ignore the metaphorical elephant in the room then he was happy to go along with it. Even if it felt like he was carrying the damn thing on his shoulders, the way a web of hot, stabbing agony shot out from his injured hip every time he took a step.

The younger Winchester gritted his teeth, lifting his eyes from the wet, shiny slate pavers and focusing instead on the plants that lined the path. Just like Dean when he first came this way, Sam was surprised to see the myriad of magical plants sprinkled amongst the roses.

"You're not kidding," he agreed, silently putting a name to each of them as he walked. Concentrating on identifying the plants even helped distract him from the whole new level of pain as he hobbled up the wide wooden steps onto the veranda, where he looked around at all the charms and wards with wide eyes.

"Devil's Shoestring, monkshood, and mayapple in the garden, and cat's-eye shell wind chimes and hoodoo bloodroot charms by the door?" He looked over at Dean, eyebrows raised. This was some serious hoodoo - more than they'd ever seen in one place before.

"Man, you don't know the half of it." Dean stepped past him to knock on the big oak door, but as he did there was the _click_ of a sturdy-sounding lock and it swung open before his knuckles could touch it.

Mel was standing on the other side, dressed in figure-hugging workout clothes with a pleasant rosy flush high on her cheeks and long brown hair tied back into a tail. Her full, pink lips turned up into a smile upon seeing Dean, and widened into a grin when she saw Sam standing beside him.

"You must be Sam!" She stepped forward like she was about to hug the younger Winchester, but stopped herself and reached out to take him by the arm instead.

"Come on in before you catch a cold," she told him firmly, and ushered the younger Winchester inside. Dean followed, taking one last look up and down the dreary street outside before he pulled it securely closed behind them, the tumblers of that sturdy lock sliding home as he did.

The entryway was pleasantly warm and dry after the chilly, overcast afternoon outside, and Sam couldn't help but take a long look around just like Dean had the first time he'd been here. He leaned back against the wall, taking in the antiques, the library of books and all the little protection charms. It was all lit by the warm glow of a small stained glass Tiffany-esque lamp that made intriguing shadows of the nooks and crannies of dark wood and rich wallpaper, and smelled faintly of a rich, floral incense. The place was like a museum of the occult, and if he hadn't been in quite so much pain and on enough morphine that he had to keep blinking away double vision, Sam would have loved to spend a good long time going through it. The shelves full of ancient-looking leather-bound tomes could probably keep him occupied for weeks.

"It's nice to finally see you, Sam," Mel said, and the younger Winchester tore his eyes away from the books to focus on the diminutive brunette. There was a hint of concern in her face, even though she was still smiling at him, and he suddenly got the feeling her deep chocolate eyes were looking directly into his soul.

"This is a lovely moment we're having here, but we kinda haven't got all day - you know, homicidal hunters on our tail and all," Dean interjected. His jacket was obviously damp, but although there were brass coat hooks mounted on the wall behind the front door, he was stubbornly keeping it on. The message was clear: _I don't intend to be here any longer than is absolutely necessary_.

Mel looked from Dean back to Sam, and gave the younger brother a wink. "You boys going to stay for tea at least?" she asked, smiling brightly.

"I'd love some tea," Sam smiled back, ignoring the death stare Dean gave him. He limped off down the hallway with Mel, and Dean glowered after them.

"There well might be homicidal psychopaths after us, but yeah, by all means - let's stop for a cup of frigging _tea_," Dean muttered, as he shrugged out of his jacket. He didn't so much hang it up as he tossed it at the wall, but it caught a hook and stayed, and he stalked off down the hallway.

Mel's kitchen table was a cosy square four-seater, made of an anonymous deep golden-brown wood, set in an equally cosy little nook a few steps from the kitchen itself. The kitchen was old, like the house, but sparkling clean and somehow, the stainless-steel appliances didn't detract from the vintage feel. Dean slipped into a chair to Sam's left, while Mel sat opposite the younger Winchester and poured everyone a steaming cup of freshly-made tea from an actual china teapot.

The tea was a wholesome-looking golden-green colour, with a pleasant, vaguely minty aroma, but Dean wouldn't have noticed if it were a bubbling green sludge served in a tiny cauldron. He shifted restlessly, every instinct shouting at him to get back on the road, while his brother and the witch made small talk. He shot a sidelong glance at Sam, sitting stiffly in his chair, obviously in pain but covering it well as he smiled and chatted sociably with Mel. Despite what Sam would have him believe, Dean knew why they were _really_ here.

_Well, to be fair, you probably want your book back as well._ Dean swirled his tea around in his cup and took an absent sip, eyes on Sam. He could see the wheels turning in the kid's head. He was just looking for the right opportunity to bring it up…

"So, Mel-" Sam started, innocently.

Mel cut him off mid-sentence. "No, Sam," she said, simply, and serenely sipped at her tea.

_And there we go. _Dean watched on out of the corner of his eye, smiling into his cup. _Amateur move, Sammy. What were you thinking, trying to sneak up on a psychic witch…!_

Sam looked taken aback. "But, I didn't-"

"And you don't need to," the witch told him, gently. "I don't need to be psychic to know why you had Dean bring you here. I know what you want, and the answer's no."

Although it wasn't a fair fight, considering the morphine haze Sam had to be swimming around in, Dean found it was kind of fun to watch her use her mojo now that she wasn't doing it to _him_. "Psychic witch, remember?" He elbowed Sam very gently in the arm, but Sam ignored him. He leaned forward with a wince, his bloodshot hazel eyes fixed on Mel's deep brown ones.

"I have to know. I have to know what happened," Sam told her, the frustration starting to show in his voice. Despite the broken bones, his right hand gripped the edge of the table hard enough to make it creak and Mel visibly tensed.

"Sammy..." Dean put what was supposed to be a calming hand on his baby brother's shoulder, but Sam shrugged it off. He kept that intense stare fixed on Mel, who still sat quietly opposite him. Her eyes flicked over to Dean and back to Sam again, but other than that she didn't move a muscle.

_Let him get it off his chest, Dean. It's okay._

Dean heard Mel's voice in his head as clear as if she'd spoken out loud. He sat back in his chair, eyes on Mel as she took another sip of tea, trying not to look as disconcerted as he felt. Beside him, Sam closed his eyes for a second and took a long breath. He exhaled slowly, making an obvious effort to get himself under control.

"I'm sorry," Sam sighed, after a moment. Mel gave him an sympathetic little smile over the rim of her teacup, but he didn't smile back.

"God, I don't even know _why _I can't remember." Sam grimaced and rubbed at a spot between his eyes, like he was getting a headache. "It's like there's this wall up in my head, and I know there's stuff hidden on the other side, but I just can't _get_ to it."

"That's gotta be tough," Mel told him. Her voice was gentle, but Dean saw the intensity in her eyes as she studied Sam. He shifted his weight, suddenly uneasy, and looked away - neither of them said a word, but Dean knew that at _this_ table, the lack of words didn't mean there wasn't a whole lot of information flowing.

"Hey - what just happened?" Dean asked, frowning. He got no response - the only sound was Mel's teacup clinking against the saucer as she set it down. After a long moment's thought, she gave the younger Winchester a nod.

"Okay, Sam," she sighed.

Dean sat bolt upright in his chair, almost knocking over his tea. "Whoa! _Not_ okay!" he protested.

Dean had the actual memories of Hell well-buried, as deep as he could shove them and with as much denial piled on top as he could muster, and as he glared acros the table at her, Mel was suddenly very glad he did. The anger made him an open book, and even though the physical evidence was gone, on the inside he was still a mess of deep, ragged psychic wounds. They were bad enough, and it was an effort for her not to flinch away.

"He's sitting right here, Dean!" Sam shot back, and Mel tore her eyes away from Dean to focus down at her tea. The cup rattled against the saucer as she wrapped her shaking hands around it.

"Sam…" Dean growled. He turned that gaze on his little brother, shifting in his chair to face him, and it was Sam's turn to try not to flinch. There was an intensity there he hadn't expected, and he paused for a beat before he went on.

"I know you think you know something about this, but-" Sam began, but Dean cut him off.

"I _do_ know, Sam! I know that, for whatever reason, _you're_ lucky enough not to remember. I wish…" Dean took a long, deep breath, and when he continued his voice was low and raw. "Sam, I'd give _anything_ not to remember Hell. You don't know how lucky you are."

Sam caught his lower lip between his teeth momentarily. He could see Dean really didn't want him to poke the bear, but...

He turned his attention back to Mel, who was quietly sipping her tea and trying not to get in the middle of their argument. Sam didn't blame her - she didn't know Dean, really, and his big brother could be kind of intimidating when he was mad.

"Why can't I remember?" he asked, gently. "Did I block it out, or did they give me something…?"

Mel looked from Sam back to the older Winchester, but Dean rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair, waving a hand in the air as if to say 'fine, do whatever you want'. He crossed his arms over his chest and just waited, giving Sam one final glare. He didn't say it, but Sam knew what he was thinking: _Don't say I didn't warn you._

"Mel?" Sam looked back to the witch, and hoped he knew what he was doing.

"Okay." She took one more sip of tea, and set the cup down with a sigh. "Well, you can't remember because the Djinn wiped your memories," she began, and spent the next few minutes filling the Winchester boys in on Owen and Ray's mental torture tactics.

"I didn't even know Djinn could _do_ that," Dean breathed, when she was done. Despite his initial reservations, Mel was filling in a lot of blanks that had been bothering him, too. That didn't mean he_ liked_ what he was hearing - he remembered how vivid a Djinn illusion could be, and the thought of what one of those bastards could've done to his baby brother...

_And for how long Sam would have thought it lasted._ Dean shuddered. For half a second, he wished he hadn't dealt with Owen and Ray so permanently. They deserved a little extra punishment for this.

"Can you tell me what it made me see?" Sam asked, his voice strained.

Mel shook her head. "That's between you and her."

"Her?" Dean couldn't help but perk up at that. "The body in the pile of pallets? That was the _Djinn_?"

Mel nodded, but to Dean's great relief, nobody pushed the issue - Mel didn't need to ask, Dean knew, and Sam was too preoccupied with his own thoughts.

"When Dean snapped out of his Djinn-verse, he remembered all of it. Why can't I?" the younger Winchester asked.

Mel just shrugged. "I'm sorry, but I don't have all the answers, Sam," she said, apologetically. Sam just sighed. He was trying not to show it, but he obviously wished she did.

The room stayed silent for a minute, all three of them busy thinking their own thoughts. Outside, twilight was turning into night, and when Mel got up to turn on the lights Sam winced and rubbed at his eyes, stifling a yawn. Mel turned the dimmer switch down as far as it would go, and he gave her a grateful look as she sat back down at the table.

"Hey, hold on a minute," Dean said, suddenly, holding up a hand. "What if they weren't _using_ that Djinn so much as _compelling_ her?"

Sam frowned. "You think they were forcing her to do it?"

Dean nodded, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. "I mean, it makes sense, right? They get some kind of leverage and the Djinn does what she's told, but when she can't get the info they want she's gotta know they're not just going to let her walk away. Djinn are all about messing with your head, so maybe she puts up that wall so you don't remember it, as a kind of 'screw you' to Owen and Ray." He spread his hands, palms up, and looked at Mel and Sam. "Maybe what they did _after_ got walled off too?"

"That works," Mel agreed, but Sam stayed quiet. He looked down at his broken hands and feet and all the little wounds - and the not-so-little ones - and it all started to make more sense. He furrowed his brow, concentrating, ignoring the building headache. Mel and Dean continued talking, but Sam wasn't paying attention anymore and they soon faded in the background.

He didn't remember his time with the Djinn at all - it was a total blank between when they'd dumped him on the floor of the warehouse up until the few memories of the whip and the stun gun and so on, trying to get information out of him that he didn't have to give in the first place. As far as he could tell the flashbacks were of early Tuesday morning, not too long after they must've given up on the Djinn, when he didn't have a lot of the burns and deep cuts he did now.

_The beatings, the whip, the broken hands, the stun gun…_

Sam didn't notice his hands shaking, even when it started to rattle his teacup against the saucer.

_Jesus, that was the stuff they did when they were trying not to cause too much damage._

"Sammy...?"

Sam looked up, blinking. From the tone of Dean's voice, he was repeating himself. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to see Mel there - at some point, she had evidently got up and come over to stand beside him.

"You need some rest," she told him, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

"Quit while you're ahead, Sammy," Dean agreed. He was trying not to look concerned, but Sam could see the tension around his eyes. "Don't look the gift-Djinn in the mouth."

Sam nodded wearily, stifling another yawn. His eyelids were so heavy they could have been made of lead. He heard someone say something about the spare room, and Mel took him by the elbow to help him up, but sitting in a rigid kitchen chair hadn't done his hip any favours - even with an arm around Mel's shoulders, he couldn't get to his feet. In the end, Dean had to all but lift him out of the chair to get him vertical.

It took the pair of them to get Sam down to hallway to a spare bedroom and, by the time they got there, Dean was all but holding him up. Mel turned on the bedside lamp and pulled back the covers, then Dean set him down on the queen-size bed as gently as he could, barely even getting a pained groan from his exhausted, semi-conscious little brother. He set about getting Sam's shoes off as Mel tucked a soft, downy pillow under his head, then she left them to it and padded down the hall to change out of her workout clothes.

Sam's room was dark when she came back out in her PJs, the door ajar a few inches. Dean was sitting back at the kitchen table, drawing pensive circles in a small puddle of cold, spilled tea in his saucer. She poured him some fresh, steaming tea from the pot, and then one for herself. Dean stayed quiet the whole time, staring into his cup, watching wisps of steam rising from the green-gold liquid.

"He remembers something, doesn't he?" he said, eventually. Mel just nodded, lifting her cup to her lips.

"Awesome," Dean sighed. He closed his eyes and rubbed absently at them with the back of one hand, putting a few more pieces of the puzzle together. He'd noticed Sam was having nightmares, and now he was pretty sure he knew what they were about. The fact that he was remembering things _at all_ wasn't a comforting thought, but if he could remember these little bits, then given a little time he could, in theory, remember _more_.

"Do you think the Djinn's wall's got holes in it, or he just can't remember much of Owen and Ray because they hit him in the head one too many times?" Dean asked, looking across the table at Mel.

Mel pursed her lips, thinking that over. "I don't know, but I think we'd all rather the latter," she said, slowly. Like Dean, she'd realised that if the Djinn's wall had holes in it, then Sam could remember things from _before_ Owen and Ray. The kind of things those two maniacs had probably either been unwilling or unable to inflict on Sam in the real world.

Dean shuddered. "Yeah, that's a comforting thought," he sighed, stifling a yawn of his own. That was the kind of thing that was going to keep him awake at night.

"I made up the sofa-bed for you," Mel added, as if following on from something Dean had just said out loud, and a brief smile touched his lips as he took a sip of his tea. He didn't usually go in for this herbal stuff, but whatever it was, it was tasty.

"So, uh, when I turned up here on Tuesday…" Dean started to change the subject, then paused. Mel looked across the table at him, smiling sweetly. He felt sure she knew exactly what he was about to say, but apparently had no intention of letting him off the hook.

Dean had another sip of tea and cleared his throat. "I think I, uh, might have been kind of an asshole," he said, apologetically. She still didn't say anything.

"Well, actually, I'm pretty sure I was," he revised. "It's just that it was _Sammy_, and I had all these worst-case scenarios going through my head, and I couldn't stop thinking that the last time I saw him I told him he should leave, and if I'd been there with him like I should have this never would've happened…" Dean paused for a breath. Mel watched on as he took a couple of deep ones, eyes closed.

"Anyway." Dean put his teacup down with a sigh. "Look, Mel, you saved my baby brother. Without you, I never would've found him in time, and I know I was kind of intense and short with you - I just wanted to say I'm sorry. And thank you."

"It's fine, honey." Mel gave him a warm, genuine smile. "He's your family."

Dean's face broke into a relieved smile, and Mel chuckled. "Bobby warned me when he called that you might be a bit 'intense'. I'm just glad you got there in time," she told him.

Dean huffed a laugh. "Yeah, you and me both."

"Thanks for bringing him by," she added. Even drugged to the eyeballs as he was, she liked the younger Winchester.

"He thought I didn't know why he wanted to come," Dean said, spinning his teacup around and around on the spot with a finger.

"And yet you brought him anyway."

"We _should_ have kept going," Dean said, more seriously. "Every instinct I got is telling me we should be getting as far from this clusterfuck as we possibly can."

"I know you had to leave Columbia pretty quick, but Sam clearly needed the break," Mel observed. Dean inclined his head in a nod of agreement. He couldn't disagree with that.

"I don't suppose you know where they are...?" he asked, after a pause. Mel just shook her head.

"I know a lot of things, Dean, but tracking a group of random hunters that may or may not be following you…" she trailed off, almost apologetic.

Dean gave her a wry little smile. "Well, why should we get a break now, huh?" He got to his feet and stretched out his back with a few audible popping noises - all the stress and tension, plus a full day of driving, and he felt as stiff as a board.

"You've done enough, anyway. Sam _did_ want the book, but he also needed to know what happened. I don't like that he remembers it at all, but I think knowing he only remembered part of it was tearing him up worse than if he could recall every detail." Being a control freak came with the job, and Dean understood that feeling of needing to have all the facts, to know all the angles - whether it was good for you or not.

"You're right. The drugs, the pain, and the uncertainty - it was wearing him down," Mel confirmed, as she got up from the table and went over to a set of three wall-mounted bookshelves near Dean. "He'll feel better once he talks about it, though. He won't want to at first, but you'll convince him to open up."

Dean sniffed, watchingMel get Sam's copy of _To Kill A Mockingbird_ from the top shelf, admiring the way her pyjama bottoms pulled tight around her backside as she reached up.

_Yeah, right - like I can make Sam talk. _He could feel the sarcasm practically dripping from his ears. _I might as well try squeezing some blood from the stones in the garden on my way out. Or maybe, while Hell's freezing over, Luci might just decide to _walk_ back into the Cage-_

"Don't sass me," Mel told Dean brusquely, and turned around and slapped the book into his chest.

"Yes, ma'am," Dean replied smartly, but he was smiling. Mel gave him a good-natured shove and went to clean up the tea dishes, wearing a smile of her own.

* * *

><p><em>Um, so... sorry this has been 'in progress' for 3 years. I just enjoy this story *that* much. ;)<em>

_Seriously, though - I'mma finish it soon. Honest. :D And Ch 14 is worth staying tuned for, if I do say so myself..._


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